


Of Loyalty, Love, and Liars

by darling_pickpocket



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Canon Era, Eventual Smut, Injury, M/M, Sex Magic, kinda slow burn, lotsa room for this to evolve n change here, wee bit of gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-04-08 06:08:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19101256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darling_pickpocket/pseuds/darling_pickpocket
Summary: Years ago, Merlin had left his fretting mother in Ealdor and found a new family in a gaggle of nomadic Druids, sorcerers, and outcasts. Now, his days are always lazy and sweet, and he wishes for nothing more than to continue to travel with his group, learning and mastering his craft along the way. But, after a series of bandit attacks cause them to stray too close to the walls of the Camelot citadel, Merlin's life begins to plummet down a slippery slope of disarray.He finds an unexpected friend in Morgana- or so he thinks, and the handsome Prince Arthur draws him closer (and drives him madder) each day. The longer he spends in Camelot, the more tangled up he becomes in the cosmic chaos that is, apparently, his destiny.A tale of our young Merlin, navigating his way through fate, and learning the true meaning of loyalty, love and lies. The problem is, he discovers...They are not so easy to separate.





	1. Gobermouch

**Author's Note:**

> Gobermouch- "An old-Irish word for a nosy, prying person who likes to interfere in other people’s business."
> 
> This is my first ever Merlin fic, I hope you all enjoy it! I'd suuuuuper appreciate any of your comments and/or feedback (if you take a gander at my profile you'll see that I'm only after joining ao3 today too, so I'm pretty new to all of this). 
> 
> Much love, and mind your pockets now,
> 
> darling_pickpocket  
> x

The road had not been gentle on Merlin’s body; he and his family had hardly stopped moving in days. His worn-out boots crunched over brambles and twigs, legs sluggish and heavy with exhaustion as he clung to the reins of his equally weak horse for support. The scrape of the undergrowth, the low rustle of the trees, and the whinny of the tiring horses grated on his ears after having heard no other sound at all for hours. Their trudging along in silence was partially out of fatigue and partially necessity- in the past week they’d narrowly avoided all being killed by bandits three times and could not risk detection again… even more so now, the further they continued in this direction. Merlin had never seen it with his own eyes, but he had heard the stories, and was certain that the castle looming on the skyline towards which they walked was indeed the fabled Camelot. 

_“Impressive, isn’t it?”_ came the voice of Mordred, one of his Druid companions, straight into Merlin’s mind. The silent gift they shared as sorcerers was a great deal of help in dangerous places. Glancing back to him with a warm smile, Merlin paused on the dirt trail he followed and leant back in a languid stretch. It was nearing dusk and the sun cast a warm golden glow over the white-brick towers of the Camelot citadel, making for an almost peaceful atmosphere. The boy approached leisurely and stood next to Merlin, eyes squinting up at him in anticipation of a response.

“Perhaps a bit extravagant for my taste,” Merlin chuckled out loud, his voice low and raspy from his extended silence. Looking down at Mordred, who did not reply but gave a lop-sided grin, Merlin took a deep, sighing breath. He knew that continuing to walk much further at this time would be too risky and it would take a toll on the group, who had all now come to a stop around him. After a long, slow drink of water from his leather flask, Merlin turned to face his friends. There was maybe a dozen of them altogether, and some, like the young and spirited Mordred, had fared well through their arduous trek; others not so much. Among them were Ceri and Miri, the kid twin sisters, who had both fallen asleep on the same horse. Their tiny bodies were slumped comically against its neck, half-supported on one side by their strapping father Abel, who had grown dishevelled, and filthy from the forest muck. And Orella, the greyed old woman who Merlin considered a grandmother. She was perched primly atop her own horse; her face shone with a kind smile but her blood-stained cloak gave away the injury she’d sustained in their last clash with bandits.

“We rest now,” Merlin began, one hand fiddling with the buckles on his worn-out saddle as he studied the group, “Tonight I think we will be safe. But we should leave at first light.” The buckles undone, he rolled the old leather off his horse’s back, hooked his satchel over one narrow shoulder and led his horse to a trickling brook nearby.

Abel’s deep and robust voice then echoed through Merlin’s head, _“We must be wary of straying too close to the walls of the citadel. If the tales are true, Uther Pendragon will care not for the reasons we have ended up here.”_ Resonant though Abel’s voice was, even inside his mind, Merlin could sense his anxiety and he understood it. Unless they were to risk being executed upon opening their eyes tomorrow, someone would have to keep watch for any royal patrols. 

_“I know. Breathe easy, Abel,”_ he reassured with a grin whilst approaching the older man, whose strong arms were now holding one of his daughters in each, _“You and your girls need food, water and plenty of rest. I’ll be the one to keep watch tonight, with Mordred. He seems to have more than enough energy.”_ The stalwart fellow nodded an agreement, relief in his kind eyes, and turned to set down his cheerful but still-sleepy children who had just stirred awake.

The evening passed lazily, and Merlin’s heart seemed to swell as he relished the tranquil chatter of his family around him. Though of course he knew that complete silence would be their safest option, he could not bring himself to quieten the sweet, twinkling laughter of the small redheaded twins who were forming magic bubbles in the air around the campfire. He allowed himself a breathy snort of laughter too, as he wandered towards Orella and crouched against a tree trunk next to her. She’d removed her blood-stained cloak and given it to Abel, who was washing it in the brook. Merlin watched in quiet amazement as Orella plucked a long, grey hair from her head, and conjured a magical golden thread from it, her eyes glowing a similar gold as she did so. She artfully directed the thread to a sore open wound running across her fragile shoulder and under her collarbone, which it began to stitch up according to her expert eye. 

“I rather think I got away lightly this time,” her gentle speech soothed Merlin to hear, and he gazed idly through the trees, where he could still make out the castle, “I only hope there will be no more violence tomorrow, my dear, don’t you?” To this, Merlin nodded slowly and furrowed his brow in concern. Orella was a skilled healer indeed, but she was no warrior at all. She had been lucky to escape the last attack with her life, and almost certainly would not be so lucky again, especially now that she was injured. He pushed the worry to the back of his mind, knowing that Orella was very sensitive to others’ feelings, and turned to flash her a sleepy smile before standing to leave. 

The others, gathered around the campfire in the dark, were either finishing off the thin vegetable broth he had made earlier or had already fallen asleep. As he ambled past the dying fire, watching the youngsters continue to conjure floating pink blossoms and tiny butterflies, and the grown-ups hold each other close beneath threadbare blankets, he felt a warmth of another kind. His family was not all connected by blood, he thought, but they remained a family nonetheless. As the night grew chilly and black, and almost everyone else was asleep, Merlin leaned against the damp, mossy bark of a tree and conjured a small flame which flickered dimly and hovered about a foot in front of his eyes. A crunch of leaves from behind startled him, but Mordred’s voice came next in a mental whisper, _“It’s so peaceful now, hm?”_ Merlin noticed he was standing beside him in the shadows.

He opened his mouth to reply aloud but was interrupted by the loud snap of a branch ahead of him. Swiftly raising a hand to quiet any reaction from Mordred, he silently extinguished the hovering flame and listened intently to the chirping and rustling of the forest. Nothing, though his family began to stir anxiously behind him. How odd. A quick glance at Mordred revealed a cheeky smirk and for the first time that day he began to speak aloud, “You must be hearing things Mer--” Merlin’s hand clapped over his mouth, his chest tightening with adrenaline as he scanned the darkened woods once again. Someone was here, he could feel it. 

_“Mordred, quietly, you must hurry and wake everyone,”_ though silent, his internal voice still shook.

_“But-”_

_“Now, Mordred. Go!”_

The younger boy turned on his heel and started back toward the campfire, when the high-pitched _whoosh_ of an arrow whistled past his ear; he staggered away from it, a quiet gasp left his lips and he felt the blood leave his face, staring helplessly at the arrow now lodged into a tree trunk opposite him. Before he could recover his balance, a low rumble buzzed through the ground behind him as Merlin hissed, “Bandits! Everybody, hide!” And he ran. Mordred’s soft leather boots scraped uselessly against the forest floor as he tried to scramble away from the campsite, his family members rising in a daze around him, his heart now beating so fast and hard that he could hear it. He seemed to be getting nowhere. Seconds later, another arrow, and immediately a third, whizzed past his head, causing a mortal panic to erupt within him and he screamed involuntarily. Terror pulsing through his veins, his eyes darted all around, certain he was about to die. His legs were just about to buckle when Merlin came thundering up behind him, one slender arm hooked his waist, knocking him forward to the ground with a harsh thud that winded him. His face in the dirt, eyes wide with fear and gasping for breath, he silently pleaded with Merlin to help them all. Merlin responded with a finger over his lips and his eyes glowed briefly golden as a magical breeze blew a thick layer of dried leaves over their campsite, obscuring it from view. 

Merlin had no idea if it would work out, but before he ran he had seen the bandits, and they weren’t riding directly towards their camp. He thought perhaps if they were quiet enough, they would ride their horses straight past him and his family, if Mordred’s shriek hadn’t given them away. The slam of hooves against the ground reverberated in the younger boy’s skull, he squeezed his eyes tight shut, and Merlin saw a single tear falling over the bridge of his nose as he whimpered beneath the leaves. His heart ached for the curly-haired lad, practically his younger brother, but he could not comfort him until the threat had passed. Among the din, Merlin could pick out a few words from the bandits as they rode past, slowing from full speed. “Where is she? She can’t have disappeared,” The neighing of a horse interrupted, and Merlin hoped it wasn’t one of their own, “I want her found, or I want your blood! Do you hear me?” the rough, coarse snarl of the bandit grew distant, as did the sound of galloping hooves, and Merlin reached out to Mordred, resting a hand on his trembling shoulder to soothe him. For what felt like an eternity, they laid there, still and silent, waiting to be sure that they were safe. Eventually, Merlin rose to his feet and brushed off the leaves, offering a silent hand to Mordred who stood cautiously on shaking legs. The others slowly sat upright from the ground, all seemingly unharmed. He gave a heavy sigh and yanked Mordred into his chest for a tight hug, chuckling with nervous relief.

After seating the terrified boy against a tree stump with a flask full of mead to calm his nerves, Merlin made a few uneasy laps around the campsite, scanning the floor which was now covered with crisp orange and yellow leaves. He was just about to turn back to see Mordred when a rustle came from below, followed by a pained whine. Merlin pulsed his magic, the gold in his eyes flickering as a small area of leaves was cleared to inspect. Lying below, face-down in a ditch, was what looked like a messy bundle of deep purple fabric and black hair. 

“Hello?” He questioned, unable to hide the wobble in his tone, “Who’s there?”

There was momentary silence, until the bundle shifted raggedly in the shadows, moaning in pain with a woman’s voice, “Please help me…” 

He scrambled ungracefully down into the waist-high ditch and knelt beside the woman, gently resting a hand on her purple silk-adorned shoulder. She groaned gutturally as he rolled her over to reveal a terrible, bloody wound on the side of her head and a snapped-off arrow lodged in her abdomen. She was not a traveller, that much he knew, because aside from the blood her skin was spotlessly clean. And she wore robes of the finest quality fabric, something only the most highly-refined classes could afford. 

“Who are you? What’s your name?” he barked, sounding unkinder than he meant to. He was still on edge, and anyone dressed like this woman could signal serious danger for his group. She was surely royalty. 

Her face contorted in agony, tears rolling down her temples, “Mm- Morgana,” she croaked weakly, clutching her stomach around the arrow, “Please- Please, help me. I think I’m dying.” 

With the help of Abel, Merlin lifted the young woman out of the ditch, with much crying and moaning on her behalf. She was too weak to stand, even with support, so Abel carried her in his muscled arms over to Orella and lay her on the ground. She was clammy and pale, her lips fading greyer with every passing second, and Merlin was thought for sure that she would not live, though Orella got to work immediately. 

“Now, child, you mustn’t scream,” she whispered, glancing around in the near-pitch black woods to emphasise her point, “This may well hurt, but they will return if they hear you.”

Her hand was wrapped loosely around the snapped arrow in Morgana’s middle, and she softly shushed the girl with the other hand on her cheek, sticky with blood. Merlin watched through squinted eyes, biting his nails as Morgana writhed and hyperventilated on the forest floor. Her green eyes, wide with panic, showed that she was not at all calmed by Orella’s soothing tone. Unbeknownst to him, Mordred also looked on from a seated spot behind, quivering as his mind whirred in the knowledge that he, instead, could have been- and almost was- in this girl’s position. 

Orella peeked over her shoulder and caught the eye of one of the young women in their group- Edeline. She was, in essence, her apprentice. Without a word she stood and pulled the blue neckerchief she wore around her neck up and over her face to hold her wispy blonde hair out of her eyes. As she approached, she whipped off one of her brown leather gloves, kneeling by Morgana’s side to rest the bare palm on her forehead. He had seen her do this before and knew what was coming. Morgana’s eyes rolled upward, the bloodshot whites visible beneath her flickering eyelids, and her jaw dropped, slack for Edeline to place the glove inside. Then with one brutal but swift movement, Orella’s grip tightened on the arrow fragment and wrenched it from the clothed flesh of Morgana’s stomach with a nauseating _squelch_ sound. Merlin was semi-aware of a sound behind him; Mordred retching and vomiting in response. Morgana’s body jolted in a violent arch as she gave a muffled, barely-conscious groan into the leather, now bitten firmly in her tense jaw. Edeline also stiffened, her head flung back, skyward-facing eyes glowing as her magic channelled the pain out of Morgana’s body and into hers. The older woman fumbled to place her frail, wrinkled hands over the wound just above Morgana’s hip, and closed her eyes, muttering an incantation. Mere seconds had passed, though Edeline had already begun to sweat and the glow in her eyes flickered with the depletion of her power. Orella continued to chant under her breath, and Merlin regarded the scene with awe as the colour returned to Morgana’s cheeks and her body slumped back into the dirt; deep, gasping breaths returning to a slow rhythm.

Afterward, Orella had taken an unusually stern role and directed the group to gather their things in preparation to leave. She remained knelt by a gradually strengthening Morgana, along with Edeline, who was slouched in exhaustion against her chunky back pack, resting to recover her power. Merlin meandered through the campsite, helping to clear away any indication of their presence so close to the castle walls. He caught sight of Mordred, pale and sickly-looking in the slowly emerging dawn, trying his hardest to haul a bursting satchel over the saddle of his horse, and failing spectacularly. 

_“Not a strong stomach, eh, Mordred?”_ he jested, clambering over a log or two to reach the weakened boy, then spoke aloud, “Here, let me help you.” This prompted him to shoot an embarrassed although grateful expression upward at Merlin, dark brown curls now stuck to his slick forehead with sweat. 

“I… I thought I would surely die, Merlin,” his lip quivered as he spoke, wringing his hands anxiously, “You saved me, Merlin. I cannot thank you enough.” With that, he threw his arms around the taller boy, who tousled his hair and gave his shoulders a firm squeeze. He worried for Mordred as if he were his true brother and had sought to protect him since they found him as a child. 

“I spoke with Orella,” Merlin changed the subject, hoping to distract him, “Today we head for Ealdor. Though I wonder what we will do with _her_.” He spat the last word out perhaps too harshly. Darting his gaze toward Morgana, he saw that she now sat upright, smiling at Ceri, who babbled toddler-nonsense to her. She was a liability, and her lingering presence put them all in grave danger. _Morgana_. The King’s ward. Why she was in the woods outside of the castle walls, alone, in the black of night, was far beyond Merlin’s imagination. She could mean them harm- although the bandits had seemed to be looking for her…

Mordred did not look up at Merlin, but remained watching the young woman through adoring eyes as he swooned, “Yeah… I wonder…”

Merlin cracked an incredulous smile and shifted his weight, crossing his arms as he eyed the boy next to him, who finally met his gaze and spluttered with a simper, “Ah! Umm… no, no, obviously that’s not… that’s… of course, we have to get rid of her.” He cleared his throat and nervously pushed a few locks of hair out of his face, then immediately brushed them back again. Merlin raised his eyebrows sarcastically and sucked his teeth, trying hard to suppress a smirk. Mordred groaned with an awkward yet amused grimace, “Stop it… you know I didn’t mean anything by it!”

“I should imagine not,” came a deep, authoritative, and unfamiliar voice from behind them which startled the two boys like a static shock. 

Merlin spun around quick as a flash, his eyes shooting upward to meet those of the man who, seated atop a large horse, had somehow snuck up on them as they were fooling around. He tried in vain to stand up straight and give an unbothered, defiant expression, “Who’s this gobermouch then?” Almost immediately Merlin regretted his words, as he registered the rider’s armour and crimson cloak which bore the Pendragon crest. With a gulp which could not have been subtle, he softened his glare and reached one arm out to usher Mordred behind him, and croaked, “S-sire.”

A malicious smirk spread across Arthur Pendragon’s face as he looked down upon the lanky boy and his friend. His horse shifted and snorted impatiently beneath him, and he could see the trepidation in the taller boy’s expression no matter how he tried to hide it. 

“Leave us be,” Merlin tried to demand, although it definitely came out more like a beg, “We mean you no trouble. Let us be on our way.” His pleading sounded so pathetic, and he kicked himself. He’d heard all the stories of the handsome Prince Arthur and fantasised of one day meeting him. But he never imagined that seeing the man up close like this could weaken his knees so.

The blonde threw his head back, gave a brief, exaggerated guffaw and pretended to wipe away a tear from his eye. He brought one hand up to rest on the hilt of his sword as a warning and nodded towards where Morgana was sitting, following the scene looking both anxious and annoyed, “And just how, exactly, were you planning on _getting rid_ of the lovely lady over there?” His tone was loud, accusatory, and unsurprisingly cocky. Merlin did not appreciate this coming from a man not much older than himself, who, despite his broadness he could easily push from his horse with a single blink. Of course, he knew that the prince was thus far unaware of his sorcerer status, and he also knew it would be safer to keep it that way. Besides, if he was going to be pushing Arthur Pendragon anywhere, he thought slyly, he'd rather it was up against a wall.

“I don’t really care,” slipped out of Merlin’s lips in an attempt to be casual, and he hurriedly fought to backtrack, “I mean- we have no use for the Lady Morgana, but we mean her no harm. We were preparing to leave, so if you’d just let us-”

The prince interrupted, “Do you mean to tell me that you and your,” he looked at the others, his face twisting into a scowl before his next words, “Your _tribe_ … have kidnapped the King’s ward, and that you expect me to believe you have only good intentions?” The scowl morphed into another mocking leer, causing Merlin’s blood to boil and his face to burn red with anger at the condescending royal, all previous amorous thoughts now at the back of his mind.

“We did not _kidnap_ her!” he retorted, his voice raising to a yell involuntarily, “We _helped_ her!” 

Arthur drew his sword and held the point uncomfortably close to Merlin’s face, prompting him to give another audible gulp, before he boomed, “I am the crown prince of Camelot, and you will address me with respect, or you will address me no longer.”

From behind him, Merlin heard a slight scuffle but dared not turn to see it, fearing that Arthur Pendragon would chop his head clean off. Fortunately, he didn’t need to, as the next voice he heard belonged to Morgana herself. Finally, he thought, feeling the nervous sweat drip over his temple.

“Arthur, do put your sword down, you show-off,” she sounded more agitated than amused, “These people have no ill will for me, and you would do well to show them thanks.”

The prince’s expression changed quickly from one of indignant ire to gobsmacked disbelief as he stumbled for the words he wanted to say, “Well, I…” His sword hand dropped slightly with his distraction, the tip of his blade now just barely scraping Merlin’s chest, “I didn’t- wait! You’re injured.” 

“Bandits, Arthur. I’d gotten lost on my walk, and bandits discovered me. Thank the Gods that these people found me and used their magic to heal my injuries, or I’d be dead!” She held a tentative hand over the site of her arrow wound as she stood, still a little unsteady. Merlin’s eyes had remained fixed on Arthur, and he watched as his expression rapidly returned to show his fury at Morgana’s last words. He raised his sword again until it met the skin underneath Merlin’s chin, the point causing a sharp sting on his neck.

“Knights!” He called, and Merlin only then noticed the other men on horseback as they trotted into his view. He was reluctant to move his head in case he slit his own throat on Arthur’s sword, “Seize the sorcerers and bring them to the castle, to be judged before the King for their crimes against Camelot.” 

Hearing the frightened whimper from Mordred behind him as he clung to his shirt, Merlin knew he had seconds to act. The other knights, of which there were five, drew their swords and began to surround his family. He could hear the twins crying. Frantically, Merlin scanned the area for any way out, his blood pumping so fast and loud in his ears that he could hardly think straight. With a flicker of gold in his eyes, he blinked, and a long branch flew up off the ground, knocking two of the knights clean off their horses, and disorienting another as his horse reared up with a squeal. In the following moments, Merlin’s instinct took complete control of his body. Whilst Arthur was distracted, he turned, looking directly into Mordred’s glistening, fearful eyes. He placed one hand flat against his chest and silently warned him, _“Run, Mordred. Run, and do not stop.”_ Before thrusting the boy backward with another flash of his golden eyes. He landed with a thump maybe fifteen feet away, scrambled to his feet and scurried away into the woods. 

“Very nice,” purred the prince’s voice from behind him, uncomfortably close now. Merlin felt a blade press against his back as a chain mail-clad arm snaked around his neck, “a valiant effort indeed…” Arthur, who had dismounted from his horse, pushed the point of his blade harder so that Merlin winced, sure he must’ve been bleeding. Arthur chuckled darkly. “I’ll have this one, boys!” He gave a smug call to the other knights, before roughly whipping Merlin around and shoving him so that he was pushed up against a nearby tree. The skinny boy writhed pathetically beneath the strong grip of the prince, his cheek scraping against the rough bark. Arthur had one arm firmly across the back of his shoulder blades, pinning him there, whilst he made a show of slowly trailing the blade in his hand - now swapped out for a long, steel dagger - along the tree, inches from Merlin’s face. As he did so, he leaned in far too close so that his lips pressed to Merlin’s ear, and spoke in a low, deep voice, “Now, now, don’t you struggle…” The prince’s warm breath disarmed the wriggling boy, who shivered though his face burned, and he brought the tip of the dagger to his lips with a final smirk, “I don’t want to have to damage this pretty face of yours.” Before Merlin could reply, a single rapid blow from the pommel of Arthur’s dagger sent his world black and sent him crumpling to the ground.


	2. Tied Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin finds an unlikely ally in Morgana, and receives an unwelcome visit from a certain pompous, bumbling, royal arsehole. How will he fare when his fate rests in their hands, and those of the disdainful King Uther? What price will he have to pay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is here! I'm amazed that people really seemed to enjoy the first instalment, and happy to give you the next part of the story. 
> 
> Thank you all for your kudos and comments, it really helps to motivate me to write more! Enjoy this next chapter then, folks, I aim to post another one in about a week again, so watch this space! 
> 
> Much love, and mind your pockets now,
> 
> darling_pickpocket  
> x

His head pounded. His bones ached. He was so cold he could barely feel the scratch of straw on his skin. Slowly and wearily, Merlin opened his eyes to find himself half-kneeling, slouched on the hard, unforgiving stone of what he knew could only be Camelot’s dungeons. With what little strength he could muster, he hitched himself into a more upright position, and tried to get his bearings; a near-impossible feat in the dim light of his cell. His straining eyes followed a robust iron chain that reached from each of his shackled wrists to the stone walls on either side of him, his arms outstretched, rendering him completely vulnerable. Unable to stand or sit- only kneel- from the tautness of the chains, he abruptly realised just how uncomfortable his position was, trying to shift his weight on sore knees. He noticed that he was alone apart from two guards who were sat on duty at a short table by the dungeon entrance, about ten feet away from the bars which imprisoned him. Attempting to use magic right now would be too risky, and he was too exhausted, starving, and could feel his power gradually diminishing.

“You there,” he spluttered, his mouth dry and raw from dehydration, “Guard!” There was no reaction from either man; they were talking between themselves, but too quietly for Merlin to hear any of it. With no knowledge or indication of how long he’d been there, or what was to be done with him, the realisation that he may be left to die alone in that cold cell rattled Merlin to his core. Just as his mind began to spiral out of control and into a panic, he spotted a shadow moving along the wall near the dungeon entrance and the guards stood up to exchange words with whoever was causing it. Moments later the guards were seated again and a short old man with wispy, white, chin-length hair rounded the corner towards the cells. He was carrying a wooden bowl and cup and seemed rather surprised when he locked eyes with Merlin on his approach.

Stopping directly in front of the bars, he gawked at Merlin and shook his head in disbelief, “So you’re finally awake, boy,” His manner was kind, though he sounded somehow disappointed, “I was beginning to think you would never come around.”

“Who are you? And how long have I been here?” Merlin questioned curtly, shifting uneasily in his restraints.

The old man did not reply but stepped aside as one of the guards, now standing again, advanced toward the cell gate and unlocked it with a key from the huge ring on his belt. Merlin twitched, watching nervously as the old man entered his cell and waited for the guard to leave. He then put the bowl and cup on top of a beat-up end table; one of the only two pieces of furniture in the cell, the other being a stout wooden stool. This, he placed in front of Merlin and sat down upon.

“What is your name, boy?” he asked, avoiding eye contact with Merlin as he picked up the bowl once more.

Something about this man put him at ease, and though it could have just been his hopefulness of rescue deceiving him, Merlin was inclined to cooperate. With a meek voice, he replied, “My name is Merlin… Uhh… Sir?”

The old man gave a stunned laugh and scooped up a spoonful of mush from the bowl, finally looking Merlin in the eye, “Well first, I am no knight or nobleman, Merlin. My name is Gaius and I am the court physician here in Camelot, where you are prisoner.” He held up the spoon to Merlin’s mouth, which gladly opened and took the unidentifiable food from him. It tasted like nothing at all, and easily could’ve been poisoned, but he was ravenous. “Your awakening has been highly anticipated, young man, for nigh on five days. I’d begun to wonder if you would starve to death before you woke.” Merlin swallowed and eagerly opened his mouth in anticipation of the next spoonful, suddenly too hungry to care to ask more questions, and so Gaius continued in a wary tone, “I have heard from the Lady Morgana the _alleged_ tale of how you came to be in this cell, Merlin.”

That caught his attention, and he stopped chewing just for a moment. He squinted suspiciously, then through a mouthful of mush replied just one word, “Morgana?”

“Indeed,” Gaius picked up the cup then, and tipped cold water slowly into Merlin’s mouth, “She claims that yourself and a party of other travellers saved her life… and that there was _magic_ involved.” Merlin greedily glugged down the water, leaving the cup almost empty as he nodded in agreement with the old man, who went on, “Sorcery is punishable by death in Camelot, as I’m sure you know. Yet she means to call an audience with the King to plead for your pardon, Merlin.” This intrigued Merlin. Why would the King’s ward want to help _him_? Fair enough, his friends did undeniably save her life… But Merlin himself had played very little part in that. Why not just free Orella and Edeline? He had no chance to probe further before a familiar voice echoed through the stone hallways of the dungeon.

“Where is he being held? Why was I not immediately informed that he’d risen?” some muffled commotion interrupted before he recognised loud and clear that it was Morgana herself. Her tone a bewildering combination of teasing and threatening, she huffed, “Never mind, you pair of buffoons. Let me pass!” Dressed in a long and bejewelled emerald-green gown, she stormed through the entrance of the dungeon and up to the cell bars, meeting Merlin’s gaze with a beaming face and a sigh of relief. Gaius raised one eyebrow, then stood from the stool and bowed slightly to her as he departed. “Oh, thank the Gods!” She exclaimed, rushing inside and taking the old man’s place on the tiny seat. Her eyes glistened with tears as she cupped Merlin’s ice-cold face in her hands, smiling from ear to ear. Evidently, she must’ve noticed his perplexed expression and so withdrew her hands, though she maintained the smile as she began to explain, “I’ve visited you here every day since they locked you up, praying that you would wake, Merlin. You shouldn’t be down here. I told Uther, I told him that you and your family were _good_ people but-”

“Where is my family? Are they safe?” He sternly interrupted Morgana, who he thought may soon become hysterical, but she swiftly sobered at this question and hung her head low. He desperately wanted to know that they were alive and well, but the thought of Morgana revealing that he might never see his family again, never watch Mordred and the twins grow up, made his stomach churn and he worried he would bring up the ‘food’ he’d just eaten.

“When you were captured I was too weak to resist the knights…” she paused when Merlin scoffed defeatedly, “I swear to you, I tried! Truly! But I was not fully recovered, and they took me away before I could help,” she looked at him, their faces almost level now, and Merlin watched the tears falling from her bright eyes, “No-one will tell me where they are, and Arthur will not speak a word about it… but Merlin, I feel it in my heart… I believe they must be safe. He’s just too proud, too stubborn to admit that they escaped. This is what he does.” Merlin’s stomach sank, and he didn’t question her. His aching heart didn’t want to dwell on just how likely that might be, so he opted for blind hope and after a few moments of silence, changed the subject.

“The King,” he began, trying not to sound too expectant, “Will he- I… will I be executed? That man… Gaius said…”

Morgana took his face into her warm hands again and Merlin flinched, slightly uncomfortable though grateful for the heat. She was shaking her head furiously, “I will not allow it. Uther is a cruel king, but I will do everything in my power as his ward to protect you, Merlin… for we are one in the same.” His undisclosed gratitude was quickly forgotten over a spark of curiosity upon hearing her last words. He looked up at the raven-haired young woman, puzzled as she rose gracefully from her seated position and turned to leave his cell, her friendly warmth now gone. “I will return, Merlin, that I promise. You will be freed.” She glanced over her shoulder when she spoke, and Merlin saw her eyes flash with gold at the same time as his chains loosened with a quiet clink, allowing his shoulders to relax a bit. In utter amazement, he watched Morgana glide out of the cell gate which closed behind her; his mind whirring in stunned silence. 

Morgana, a witch? Did the King know? Obviously, he mustn’t, or she would surely be dead. Why did she say nothing in the woods? With a grimace, Merlin remembered that he’d hardly been welcoming- in fact, he’d tried to seem as unapproachable as possible to scare her off. And yet here she was, swearing to protect him as kin. He silently cursed himself for being such an idiot and settled on a conclusion that he would find some way to repay her. His rumination was over when his ears pricked up to the sound of a hushed confrontation between Morgana and another man.

“Now you be kind, I owe him my life,” she instructed.

The man laughed, which sounded unnervingly familiar (and if he was honest with himself, he knew who it was), and Merlin listened in to the haughty protests. “I won’t _hurt_ the boy, Morgana. Father thinks that I’m here to question him…” Merlin’s breath hitched in his constricting throat. It was indeed Prince Arthur. There was barely enough time for Merlin to process his odd utterance about the King and questioning, never mind decide what he was going to do about it, before Morgana’s footsteps faded away and Arthur was striding, dignified yet nonchalant, straight for his cell. Merlin wished that he could just tell him to get lost, and that questioning him was pointless even if he wanted to because he had nothing to tell, and that no matter how much he tortured him it would be futile, so he should just leave there and then and not waste his oh-so-precious royal time. But none of that came out. His mouth would not open, knowing his life and the lives of his family were at risk. His heart fluttered with anticipation.

Then, there he stood. Leaning casually against the iron bars of Merlin’s cell, munching on a green apple. He no longer wore the chain mail and armour, but a thin, off-white linen shirt, brown breeches, and leather boots. He almost seemed like a normal person, if it weren’t for his tangibly arrogant presence that only someone with the ego of a Prince could have. Merlin couldn’t figure out if his mouth wanted to smile or scowl at that thought. Arthur took another obnoxiously loud bite from his apple, having still not looked at Merlin, despite the boy’s own unwavering gaze. When the strapping blonde eventually glanced in his direction, Merlin realised he’d been staring and lowered his eyes with an unexpected blush.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Arthur’s voice was smooth and deep; it sent a silent shiver up Merlin’s spine. He did not retort, instead watched the ground as Arthur shifted his weight to stand and started to pace idly in front of him. Merlin scolded himself for feeling so nervous. The Pendragons were a bunch of pompous, bumbling, royal arseholes and he believed he could out-wit this one if he needed to, for sure. Arthur spoke up again, fishing for a response and snatching Merlin back into the present, “I just wanted to come and check up on you.”

Merlin scoffed automatically, looking up, “Yeah right.” 

The blonde stopped pacing and folded his arms, a wide, smug grin on his face. “He speaks!” Merlin averted his gaze again, feeling his face burn with embarrassment, “Oh relax… _Mer_ lin.” The boy in chains stiffened a little at the sound of his name in the Prince’s mouth and quickly tried to relax, praying that Arthur hadn’t noticed. After a few minutes of awkward silence, and Merlin trying desperately to seem unbothered, Arthur’s unfinished apple dropped to the floor with a quiet _thunk_ , directly in Merlin’s eye line. Confused, he furrowed his brow, receiving a snigger from the standing man.

“Are you going to pick that up, or leave it to rot?” He impulsively snapped at Arthur, still keeping his gaze low. He might regret saying that to the crown Prince of Camelot, he thought.

“You’re a plucky one, I see,” came the amused reply, “Bear with me.” That regret came quickly crashing down on Merlin as the Prince sauntered back over to the apple and crouched down agonisingly slowly. He stared directly at him as he rolled up his sleeves with a subtle flex of his biceps, grabbed the apple, and stood up again just as slowly. Merlin let go of the breath he was holding when Arthur stood, relieved that he couldn’t see the no-doubt unbearable, smug satisfaction on his face. This relief, however, was short lived; Arthur then took several slow, purposeful steps toward him, until his hips were mere centimetres from the boy’s face. Merlin could feel the warmth radiating from the man as he raised his hand, holding the apple in front of his stomach and above Merlin’s head, “My apologies, _Mer_ lin. Now, would you like a bite?”

Faster and faster, his mind sank into a frenzy as Merlin realised he could not physically back away from Arthur, even after Morgana had loosened his chains. He swallowed the lump which had appeared in his throat from hearing the Prince say his name like that again, so deliberately, and so close to him. He attempted a reply, “N- uh… no. No, my Lord. Sire. No thank you.” He grimaced, mortified at the apparent uselessness of his mouth.

“Oh no, please,” Arthur hastily but playfully asserted, “I insist. Here, I’ll help you, since you’re… tied up.” His hand reached down under Merlin’s chin, taking a firm but careful grip of his jaw, and in slow motion the boy felt red hot panic rising within as he searched for anything, _anything_ else to look at but the Prince’s knowing face and chiselled jawline. He might be the King’s son, but this must be crossing a line, Merlin thought, it was inappropriate, even for an interrogation tactic.

Right as it dawned on him that there hadn’t actually been any questioning yet, Arthur was guiding him to face upward, and that was when Merlin realised _just_ how close they were. A tingling feeling rushed to his stomach like crazed butterflies as his head turned, his lips barely missing the fabric of the Prince’s breeches. There he dangled from his chains, his mouth directly in line with the crown jewels, so to speak. Arms outstretched, helpless, Merlin strained his eyes sideways to gawk at a spot on the wall as if it were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. He could smell the sweet apple that Arthur was now holding in front of his face. The Prince grazed a soft trail up Merlin’s jaw with his thumb, but he did not move from beneath his hot touch. His heart was fluttering behind his ribs and he could feel beads of hot sweat forming on his forehead, the bitter cold of the dungeon cell apparently no longer an issue. Magical wisdom be damned, Merlin could not comprehend what was happening.

“Look at _me_ ,” the voice from above was warm, yet this was an order. Merlin hesitated, but the domineering tone of the Prince was enough to convince him to give up inspecting the damp cell walls. He reluctantly looked up, locking eyes with Arthur Pendragon. The bizarre tension was killing Merlin, his shoulders ached again (but not from the shackles) and his breathing was shaky. He tried unsuccessfully to school his frenetic mind, tried to force himself to feel angry instead of… whatever else this was, causing a burning heat to pool in his groin. The smouldering eyes of the man who towered over him were half-closed, and a teasing, but relaxed smirk played on his lips as his tongue darted out of the corner of his mouth to moisten them. In Merlin’s head, it felt like they’d been like this for an eternity; he, on his aching knees, trembling with both fear and hidden desire, at the mercy of the Prince of Camelot, and the handsome Prince himself, gazing down in amusement as the young sorcerer drove himself positively mad inside. 

His daydream was broken off by Arthur in the same low voice, with another demand, “Now, open your mouth.” The double entendre of his request was not lost on Merlin, who felt his cheeks flush again, giving away his emotions. He seethed, hating that such a royal prat had this power over him. In an attempt to cut Arthur’s sick game short, he snatched his eyes from the Prince’s and promptly took a crisp bite of the apple. The tart juice came as a strong but pleasant shock to Merlin’s deprived senses. His eyes flickered shut of their own accord as he relished in the sweet taste, letting slip a quiet noise of satisfaction before he could stop himself. Eyes now shooting open, Merlin could see the Prince move across the cell, placing the remainder of the apple on the small wooden table. As he straightened to leave, Arthur smirked and caught his eyes again, dropping one final comment that burned in his deep red cheeks, “That was fun, Merlin.”

Though he felt ridiculous doing so, Merlin chomped down and swallowed the bite of apple that was in his mouth. It was delicious, and it had been a long time since Merlin had tasted fruit so fresh and crisp, but he couldn’t enjoy the taste fully due to his cloudy confusion about what had just occurred. Glowering at the bright green apple which looked starkly out of place on the table of his dingy cell, he tried to make sense of it all. Had the Prince just come here to get inside Merlin’s head? According to him, the King believed he was there to question him, and yet no questioning took place at all. Were prisoners just sources of entertainment for him? Or perhaps the other man was going to slowly erode his will, in the hopes of getting some sort of confession… He could muster no other realistic explanation. The still-vivid memory of their close proximity and Prince Arthur’s slow, purring voice, along with the sound of Merlin’s pulse which had slowed but was still thumping in his head, began to agitate him. If it were any other man- any regular townsperson, traveller or acquaintance in a village pub, he would be certain that they were flirting with him. But the ludicrousness of believing the same of Arthur Pendragon, the crown Prince of Camelot and heir to the throne, made him cringe. Maybe Arthur had been mocking him. He could’ve been aware of Merlin’s boyish crush, he thought… after all, most of the kingdom surely swooned over him daily, so he must be adept at recognising the signs. His sluggish brain was overwhelmed and lacking in five days of food and water had not left Merlin well enough to unpick and deduce the motivations of the Prince. Grateful for Morgana’s slight loosening of his chains, he let his head hang forward and closed his eyes, doing his best to ignore his sore joints so that he could rest.

Merlin was startled awake by the clanking sound of keys in his cell gate, and as he lifted his head, his stiff neck seemed to creak. There were two people standing by the bars, and after a few seconds his eyes adjusted to the bright orange light cast by a torch; Morgana and the physician… Gaius. Still dazed, it took a moment for him to realise what was happening, until the short old man shuffled over to fiddle with the fittings on the wall which held his restraints in place. The chains gave a noisy clang and the dangling boy’s arms dropped abruptly, sending a shockwave of white-hot pain shooting through his upper back and neck as he slumped forward, prone onto the ground with a thud. Groaning loudly, Merlin rolled himself upright with weakened arms and off of his knees which had hurt for so long they’d become numb. 

“Come, Merlin,” Gaius bent awkwardly, one hand on his own back, the other outstretched to help him stand, “I will give you something for the pain later, for now, you must come with us.” Looking up through tired eyes, Merlin tentatively stretched upward, and his shoulders cracked audibly. The satisfaction of free movement was fleeting as he tried to stand on stiffened legs and a destabilising shockwave spiked down from his kneecaps, causing him to groan deeply through gritted teeth. 

“Can’t I just lie down again? Just for a minute…” Ignoring him with a tut, Gaius hobbled to wrap an arm around his waist, pulling one of Merlin’s over his shoulders to support him, and they slowly made their way to the cell gate. Through gasps and gripes, Merlin scanned Morgana’s beaming face and asked, “Where am I going?” If he was honest with himself, he already knew… He just wanted to hear it. Just to make sure he wasn’t really being led to a pyre with his name on it.

“The King has agreed to hear you- hear _us_ plead your case,” she began as she led the three of them to the dungeon exit, unable to disguise the worry in her voice, “He will not be easy to sway, Merlin, so you must do whatever he asks of you, if you wish to keep your life. Do you understand?” Merlin nodded unenthusiastically, hanging perhaps a little too heavily on Gaius as they staggered up the stairs. He could agree to that now, he thought, and if necessary he would evade the consequences when he had recovered his energy and powers. 

The three came to the top of the stone stairs which led out of the dungeons, and rounded a corner into a long, spotlessly white corridor. It was bright and disorienting; he could see out of the windows that it was probably mid-afternoon, even though every minute in the cells had felt like the miserable dead of night. With each step, the strength in his legs returned and he found himself leaning slightly less on the old physician beside him. By the time they reached a set of great wooden doors, guarded on either side by armoured men wielding tall pikes, he could almost stand independently despite the pain. Morgana nodded courteously to the guards, who opened the doors for them to enter. As the doors swung open with a low creak, Merlin could scarcely believe his eyes of the luxury. Gilded plant pots and picture frames lined the walls, and a great wooden chandelier hung dubiously from a ceiling chain at the far end of the hall, casting a mesmerising golden glow over the entire throne room. His eyes followed the long red carpet which divided the room in two and lead to the throne itself, where the King, Uther Pendragon, sat. His expression was deadpan and bored, and as he lounged against the arms of the throne, Merlin could almost picture this man’s deriding tone as he would dismiss their pleas and sentence him to death by fire.

Morgana floated elegantly to stand in front of the regal Uther and curtseyed before turning to watch Gaius helping Merlin lurch unsteadily up the carpet. Hobbling across the hall as if he were the same age as the old man, Merlin scanned the throne room. There were a handful of knights in armour and cloaks, some of whom he recognised from the woods, lingering around the throne. Next to the King himself, with one arm rested casually atop the back of the throne and his other hand in his pocket, stood Prince Arthur. Merlin gulped involuntarily as the memory of their meeting in the dungeon resurfaced. Gaius came to a stop a short distance before the King to lower the bruised boy to his knees, but after a loud wince and gasp left his lips, Uther Pendragon waved his hand indifferently and spoke for the first time.

“Let the boy stand, he has knelt for time enough.” Surprised by this kindness, Merlin wrung his hands in front of him and wobbled on his unsteady legs as Gaius moved aside with a low bow. Looking around nervously, down to his feet and then back up again, Merlin had no idea what he was supposed to do now. He briefly caught the Prince’s gaze, who was watching him intently with a coy smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Thankfully, the King spoke again to break the silence with his booming voice, “So, boy. You have come to beg my pardon?” Merlin nodded anxiously, for some reason unable to speak, and extremely aware that Arthur was still staring at him. 

“He has, your Majesty,” interjected Morgana, obviously sensing his nerves, “Merlin wishes to profess to you his innocence.”

Uther nodded slowly and did not meet the girl’s eyes, a smile which resembled that of the Prince briefly appearing on his face before his stern expression returned, “You stand before your King accused of both kidnapping the Lady Morgana, my ward, and of abetting the practise of sorcery within the kingdom of Camelot. What say you in your defence?”

Glancing at Morgana, he saw she was concealing a smile. _Abetting_ the practise of sorcery? Not practising it himself? Merlin swallowed loudly and cleared his throat, “I- Your Grace- I found the Lady Morgana injured… and- and dying. In the woods outside the castle walls, my family and I healed her wounds.” His voice trembled, and he had to look away to hide his disdain for the man, who he knew would happily murder an entire people, his people, only for being who they are. 

“You were not held against your will as a hostage, Morgana?” the King questioned her, his nonchalant waving gestures revealing a subtle disinterest.

The young woman frowned briefly at his apathy, but then straightened and looked Uther in the eye, replying firmly, “Not at all, my King. I was always free to leave.”

“Mmm. But this troupe of yours- they did in fact practise sorcery, no?” His eyes flitted back to Merlin without responding to Morgana, an impatient frown on his face, “Whether to heal the Lady Morgana or not, sorcery remains a crime of the highest severity within our great kingdom.” Merlin continued to gape, dumbfounded, at the King. He had no clue what he should say. Eventually, after some spluttering and stammering, Uther sighed in frustration and continued speaking, “Now, boy- Merlin, was it? Merlin. My lovely ward informs me that you knew that your _friends_ practised magic, but you did not. She claims that you are a physician-in-training, not a sorcerer. Is this the truth?” Again, he turned to Morgana. Though she didn’t look back at him, he could see her straight face begin to falter to an uncomfortable, tight expression. She had lied to the King, for Merlin. ‘Don’t judge a book’, he thought to himself.

“Yes, your Majesty. In training,” He lowered his head slightly, returned his eyes to the King, and then to Prince Arthur. Despite still leaning relaxed against the throne, he was no longer watching Merlin, avoiding his gaze by studying his fingernails. He made no move to point out that he had, in fact, witnessed Merlin perform magic- and neither did the knights around him. _Why?_ After a slight contemplative pause, he finished off, “I’m an apprentice.”

Uther gave a slow, thoughtful nod, then sat up straight and declared, “Then in my power as reigning King of Camelot, I shall grant you, Merlin, your pardon. The Lady Morgana would certainly not be standing with us today if not for your healing skills, and for this service I will spare your life.” 

Merlin accidentally let slip a quiet sigh of relief and allowed a grateful smile to spread over his face, “Thank you, your Grace. You won’t regret this!” He beamed.

“However,” added the King, wiping the smile clean off Merlin’s face, “I am enforcing two conditions upon your pardon,” he inspected Merlin’s strained face, which had drained of colour entirely, then continued, “Your skills as a physician demonstrated by healing my ward are unrivalled by nearly any I have witnessed in my time, boy. For this reason, I am placing you under the supervision and tuition of our esteemed court physician, Gaius.” Merlin’s shoulders dropped as he relaxed, Gaius bowing low in his peripheral vision. That wasn’t so bad, he thought. Uther hurriedly went on with an eye roll and exasperated sigh, “And finally… Gods. Apparently, you have taken the fancy of my _son_ , Arthur. When your services are not required by Gaius, you will act as his manservant. Do you understand?”

His jaw dropped, and he felt a memorable burn return to his cheeks. Arthur was standing straight now, his arms folded over his bulky chest as he grinned mischievously at the gobsmacked boy. Prompted by a sharp nudge to his upper arm, he glanced at Morgana whose impatient, wide eyes told him to answer. Facing the King once more, Merlin stumbled on his words, “Y-yes, your Highness. I, uh… I understand. Thank you.”


	3. Sleepwalking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin has been working for Arthur for some time now, but the cold distance between Prince and manservant is almost too great, and he struggles to move past this 'celebrity' status, regardless of Arthur's incessant inappropriate mischief. 
> 
> When Gwaine drags Arthur away for some drunken down-time, Merlin takes a risk to keep the Prince from making a fool of himself- but has he crossed a line?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again, folks, it makes me endlessly happy to see your interactions with this fic. Please do let me know what you think in the comments, if you'd like- I love to see your responses! This part has some more Merthur for you all.  
> I'm just about finished with the next chapter too and I cannot wait to share it with you soon! 
> 
> Much love, and mind your pockets now,
> 
> darling_pickpocket  
> x

Merlin had been Arthur’s manservant for more than a month now. He didn’t hate it, and that was about as much as he spoke on the matter, though really, he longed to spew out the ramblings of his boisterous inner world to anyone who would listen. The problem was that the closest friend he had in Camelot so far was Morgana, who was often too close to the King, and he visibly cringed for some reason every time he saw Merlin. He could possibly speak to Gaius although the old man seemed largely uninterested, and far more concerned with actually teaching him the physician’s craft – he hadn’t exactly been thrilled to find out that Merlin was _not_ an apprentice, and had never so much as ground an herb, never mind mixed a tincture. So, he had little choice but to keep his thoughts to himself.

The servants’ quarters next to Arthur’s bedchamber weren’t luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, but he had to admit to himself that it was much better for his physical health. Sleeping on a cot, scratchy and stiff though it was, made his back and joints hurt significantly less than the forest floor did- and he savoured each morning that he woke dry, not soaked to his bones from the rain. Luckily, the extra energy he tended to have because of all this made him more able to tolerate the arrogant prat that he was servant to. Unaccustomed to being ordered around and restricted in his movements, the first week or so had been extremely rocky and there were numerous spats between himself and the Prince, who often didn’t even seem to consider how demanding he might be. Merlin could rarely go anywhere by himself during the day, aside from the times Arthur was away training or dealing with the many administrative matters that the King himself couldn’t be bothered with, and most of that spare time was spent with Gaius. Being constantly stitched at the hip had made the two men rather… tetchy. When Merlin _did_ argue with Arthur, it was often as a cause of losing his temper (which, he liked to point out, _used_ to be very mild) and snapping something like, “Just _how many_ arms do you think I have, exactly?” at the Prince, who never did anything for himself, it appeared. More frustratingly, the vast majority of these times he was forced into dropping the subject of his gripes prematurely due to Arthur’s propensity for invading his personal space, making him blush, and generally embarrassing him. Nevertheless, Merlin made a conscious effort to keep his mouth zipped even when Arthur was being an arsehole and tried to remind himself that if the Prince hadn’t done the same, Uther would’ve had him executed as a sorcerer and that would’ve been the end of it. Of him.

He’d tried many times to broach the topic of that day with him; all attempts unsuccessful. The first time Merlin asked Arthur why he hadn’t revealed his secret to the King, he’d just pretended not to know what Merlin was talking about, as if there was no secret to tell. Merlin almost believed that he’d forgotten, or perhaps that Arthur had convinced himself he’d imagined it, but every now and again the Prince would catch him using his magic behind closed doors and only smile coyly as he watched the gold sparkle fade from his manservant’s eyes. Though Merlin wasn’t aware of it, those instances had actually become very common and Arthur had developed a sly habit of lingering beside doorways to try and catch a glimpse. He thought it was fascinating. Not to mention the idea that someone so unsuspecting, so unthreatening as Merlin could hold such power… it gave him a mystifying thrill that he’d become slightly addicted to. 

Over the past month, after having gotten used to each other’s constant company, they’d developed a good repartee together. Their unique brand of banter was sharp and witty, as well as occasionally silly and nonsensical… and always more flirtatious than either man cared to admit. But it suited them both well; Arthur would secretly look forward to returning to his chambers from long meetings with the council or his father, where he had to keep up professional appearances and be diplomatic at all times. Knowing that his clumsy manservant Merlin would be there for him to play games with and to put a smile back on his face made it easier to pass the hours. Similarly, though he too kept it to himself, Merlin rather enjoyed the back-and-forth of the games that the Prince and he would play. Though he was still a little anxious to reciprocate (given his master’s status as honest-to-Gods royalty), it felt like a challenge; a competition of who could hold power over the other, even if he did lose most of the time. It also kept his mind from worrying too much about his family, from whom he’d heard nothing since the day in the woods. He managed to keep his anxiety at bay well enough, knowing also that Morgana had promised to take him out on a search one day soon.

One warm and breezy afternoon, Merlin was bumbling about the castle grounds, collecting equipment and preparing for a hunt the next day. He’d helped to dress Arthur in his armour that morning, exchanged a few sarcastic quips, and sent him off to training with the knowledge that he would have a whole day to get ready for the upcoming trip. It would be just the two of them, Arthur had said, because they’d stay close to the castle and wouldn’t need a crowd of men for protection – and besides, he wanted some peace and quiet. That might have bothered Merlin a short while ago, but as their working relationship grew less awkward and more enjoyable, he found himself looking forward to a few days outside of the castle walls with Arthur. It would be a change of routine and that thought felt bright and refreshing in Merlin’s mind, bringing a smile to his face as he plodded down a set of stairs to head to the stables.

On his way, he passed the training grounds where he knew Arthur would be with his knights; it wasn’t really along the path to the stables, but only a short detour, and Merlin enjoyed watching their skilful fighting in a similar way as Arthur’s secret enjoyment of watching his magic. Arms folded in front of him, Merlin leant against a stone wall as he observed the impressive display of glinting swords clashing against heavy armour. Some of the knights moved slowly, as if practising choreography, but Merlin’s gaze was focused on the familiar sandy blonde of Arthur’s hair, who was engaged in a quicker, more aggressive battle in the middle of the group. He was fighting Gwaine, one of the friendlier knights, who Merlin had actually spoken to before. Gwaine was quite different from the others – sarcastic, cheerful and quick-witted but without all the pomp and ego – he would talk to Merlin with the same respect as he would everyone else. He watched as the two lunged and parried in turns, Arthur’s face one of stern concentration and Gwaine’s much more playful, even giving a loud ‘Ha-haa!’ when he landed a blow. Merlin snapped his eyes wide when he heard his name called, brought away from a trance he didn’t realise he was in.

“Merlin, what are you doing here?” It was Arthur, now facing him, sword still half-raised. He didn’t sound pleased to see him, but neither did he sound angry – more just surprised. Gwaine took advantage of his distraction and clanked his training sword over the back of Arthur’s armoured shoulders, a child-like grin on his face as he did. Barely even stumbling in reaction, Arthur raised his eyebrows, turned, and with a gloved hand, shoved the long-haired man backwards onto his arse. Gwaine gave an _‘oof’_ sound and groaned.

“Aye Merlin!” It was cheery but pained, Merlin could tell he was winded, “We’re taking your Royal Highness here to the Rising Sun when we’re done! Will you join us?”

This caused a stunned expression to sweep over Arthur’s face, and he rolled his eyes with a breathy laugh, replying to nobody in particular, “Dragging me there, more like,” he then shook his head playfully at Gwaine, “Anyway, don’t even think about it _Mer_ lin, I need you to prepare my evening bath, so I’m afraid you’ll be far too busy!” With that, he turned back around and helped his fellow knight to his feet to continue fighting. Merlin let his arms flop to his sides, palms up and mouth open in mock-shock, but Arthur wasn’t paying attention. He spun around and marched his way in a comical huff to the stables to finish preparing the horses.

It was late by the time Merlin had finished his preparations for the hunt, and he sat on one of Arthur’s dining chairs, gazing with only a soft focus on the darkening red sky through the window, as he fiddled with a single plump grape in his fingers. Eventually, he tore his eyes away from the view, and glared down at the silver plate in front of him, piled with meat, cheese, and more purple grapes. Arthur hadn’t returned for his dinner yet, nor his bath. Merlin had re-heated the water with his magic twice already whilst he’d been waiting, and though he was beginning to grow impatient, he knew that Arthur rarely had an opportunity to cut loose with his friends at the tavern. He resolved to wait a short while longer before venturing to pry the Prince away from his tankard. The music of bards playing in the streets and taverns of Camelot was faint but cheery as it drifted into the Prince’s bedchambers, giving Merlin something to tap his foot to as he waited. His mind wandered, pondering on what kind of person Arthur Pendragon must be, outside of just… a Prince. Merlin tried to imagine Arthur with his friends, and the rough-and-tumble banter that he thought would make perfect sense in friendships between knights. The picture seemed very unnatural. Even after this recent time he’d spent with Arthur, barely ever leaving his side, Merlin still couldn’t envisage the man being a ‘normal’ person… he just couldn’t remove Arthur from his mental pedestal. All the previous years of Merlin’s life, Prince Arthur had been a man of legend – especially in the small villages where he’d rested periodically with his travelling family. After a few drinks in those taverns, people from all over the Kingdoms would make up romantic tales and chatter away to Merlin about the gorgeous, gallant gentleman that was Arthur Pendragon; the young girls would dream of being his bride, the boys of being a knight alongside him. Merlin couldn’t crack that illusion in his mind, that Arthur was a celebrity, and so there remained a sliver of coldness between the two men that neither spoke of. With a quiet sigh, Merlin found himself hoping that he could warm to Arthur and that they could one day close that gap, despite knowing deep down that he was still the Prince of Camelot and Merlin would never – could never – be more than his manservant.

Merlin was torn from his bittersweet brooding by a loud thump from the other side of the room, making him jump from his seat. The platter of food clashed straight off the table, grapes rolling all over the floor. He swore under his breath before craning his neck around to see what the noise was, only to be met with the sheepish, pink-flushed face of Sir Leon, who hovered uncomfortably in the open doorway, panting. He didn’t appear to be drunk, which surprised Merlin.

“Ah, Merlin, will you- Will you come with me, please?” he questioned, puffing a breath out between every couple of words, adding, “To the tavern, I mean.” Merlin raised one eyebrow and gestured around at the still-moving grapes on the floor, and the slowly-cooling bath tub, to demonstrate that he was, _kind of_ , preoccupied. The knight glanced furtively at the window and then back at Merlin, as if he was very reluctant to explain, but he did so nonetheless, “It’s Arthur.”

Sir Leon strode in a rush back to the Rising Sun tavern, meaning that Merlin had to jog in bursts to keep up with him, confused the whole way there as to what could possibly warrant his presence. He thought perhaps they might play a stupid trick on him when he arrived, but as he followed Leon through the door and into the thick, heady atmosphere of the pub, that seemed to be an unlikely answer. The place was bustling, as was usual in the evening, townsfolk, farmers, and merchants alike dancing to the loud chorus of the musicians who were playing in the corners. The group of knights were sat around one large, rectangular table which was pushed up to a wall, sharing a bench either side – except for Arthur. The Prince sat on top of the table, one leg outstretched down the centre and the other cocked up to lean his arm on; the support apparently very necessary, Merlin noticed, as he hiccupped from his reclined position against the wall and spilled some of his drink on his clothes. To his complete astonishment, Merlin also noted that Gwaine appeared to be the soberest one. He watched in cautious wonder as the scene unfolded before him.

“Shhhyeah… No, shutup- shut up _Gwaiiiiine_ ,” Percival swayed, leaning over the table and squinting at Gwaine as he cradled a tankard of mead in his enormous hand, “L-lettim finish!” it was such a bizarre sight, this giant of a man slurring loudly and fumbling as he tried to secure himself to not fall off the bench. He gestured up at Arthur with one hand and polished off his drink with the other in one long gulp.

Arthur leaned in to Gwaine, far too close and far too quickly, and he nearly slipped straight off the table before catching himself on the sober man’s shoulder. He eyed him through heavy-lidded eyes, and garbled out his words through more hiccups, “As I wash… Try- _trying_ \- to say… My ssshervant. He does this thin- he does this thing, right? Arrre-yuh listening?” he pointed a wagging finger directly into Gwaine’s face, “Issgreat. It’s juss… It’s ador– abor…able. Adorable.” As he stumbled over the last word, Merlin felt a rapid heat wash over his face, and he knew he was bright red. He was glad that none of the other knights had noticed him and Leon standing by the door yet, and silently waited to hear what Arthur was talking about, and if he would pay him any more drunken compliments. 

With a steadying hand, Gwaine gingerly propped Arthur back up onto the wall behind him, “Yeah, buddy… You do keep saying that! I’m sure you’re right.” 

“Mm-hmmm. I- _yam_. ‘Coz he does it when he thinks ’am not watchin’. Ha! Shhuch an idiot. Iss like… like magic, y’know.”

Merlin stiffened visibly when Arthur said that, and now realised why Leon had brought him here. Arthur would either make a public disgrace of himself or reveal Merlin’s secret. Gwaine’s face was almost frantic, eyes flitting around to make sure nobody had heard, and then he gave a brash, awkward, and very fake laugh, “Yeah but it _isn’t_ magic, though, is it, _Sire_?” He hissed through gritted teeth at Arthur, who only grinned dumbly in response, completely unaware of his actions. Merlin loudly cleared his throat to get their attention, hoping to end this spectacle before the whole town noticed. The Prince drunkenly swung his head around, his expression becoming slightly more awake, and grinning ludicrously when he spotted his servant standing in the doorway.

“ _Mer_ lin! I was juss talking mmbout you!” His voice was shrill, almost too funny, and Merlin struggled to keep a straight face. Before he had to somehow muster a serious reply to the swaying man, Gwaine shot up from his seat, hooked his arm around him to help him stand, and practically dragged him through the tavern door.

It had taken the three men well over an hour of intense labour to get the petulant and staggering Prince back to his chambers, both of the knights claiming that they’d never seen him in such a state. Then, whilst Arthur sloshed around in the freshly re-heated bath tub, Merlin wiped the sweat from his brow and led Gwaine and Leon back to the door.

“How did you manage to do this to him?” Merlin’s question was only half-amused, as he knew he would be looking after him ’till he sobered.

Gwaine reached a hand up guiltily to scratch the back of his neck, “He offered me out for a challenge. Drink-for-drink, he said, and who am I to say no to the Prince of Camelot, eh?” Dragging an exhausted hand over his own face, Merlin shook his head in disbelief. Gwaine seemed completely sober, even after having apparently matched the Prince’s drinks, and he was certain that Arthur would never hear the end of this from his knights – not to mention the way he’d spoken about Merlin… though, strangely, the others hadn’t seemed too surprised by Arthur’s drunken gushing. After exchanging their brief goodbyes, Merlin shut and locked the heavy door and paused, rubbing his tired eyes with a sigh. This must be beyond his duties as a manservant, he pondered. 

The noisy splashing of water and squeaks of movement behind him prompted Merlin to spin around, with a sterner expression than he perhaps meant to, and he snapped, “Sire. You _may_ want to keep it down a bit. It’s quite late.” Arthur froze ridiculously, slowly looking back at Merlin with one hand in the air above the water. Merlin narrowed his eyes and took a tentative step forward, “Don’t you-” he was cut off by the _slap_ of Arthur bringing his hand down, sending water flying out of the tub, all over the floor, and onto Merlin’s shoes. He seethed, glowering at Arthur’s childish laughter. The furious boy had no chance to stop his nonsense as he was interrupted yet again, this time from a knock on the door. Merlin stood perfectly still and glared at Arthur, hoping he would be quiet, but having no such luck. Another knock came, followed then by Uther’s voice.

“Arthur? By the Gods, what is going on in there?”

Merlin swore in a whisper, wracking his brain for a solution to this situation. The only thing he could think of, he pulsed his magic in Arthur’s direction and the blonde’s mouth shut tight by force, eyes wide. He then scuttled to the door and unlocked it, trying to fill the open gap with his body as he smiled awkwardly up at the King, greeting him far too enthusiastically with, “Ah, your Grace!”

Uther ignored his dumb cheeriness and frowned, trying to angle his neck past Merlin, “Where’s Arthur? I heard some commotion. Is everything alright?” Merlin couldn’t figure out if he sounded more concerned or suspicious, but when he heard more splashing from Arthur in the bath tub, he knew he had to get Uther away.

“Oh, yes! No cause for concern here. He’s uhh… he’s sleepwalking. That’s all. Been doing it all week. This is the worst night.” He cringed inwardly at the stupidity of his excuse but crossed two fingers behind his back. Uther squinted and took a small step back. Without a second thought, Merlin took advantage of this slight retreat and hurried out something along the lines of needing to put him back into bed and that he would be right as rain just as soon as he visited Gaius, before abruptly shutting the door in Uther’s face. He swiftly locked it again and held his breath, staring at the wood until he heard footsteps leading back away from the room. Thank the Gods. A great big sigh rushed out of Merlin’s lips and he _thunked_ his forehead against the wood, taking in the brief silence with his eyes closed before he flashed his magic to return Arthur’s voice to him. 

“Quite impressive really,” he turned with a frown to face the Prince, noticing that although he sounded suddenly much less slurred, Arthur still clung to the edge of the bath tub for stability, “Gross insubordination, but still impressive.” Merlin didn’t reply to the grinning man, only pursed his lips and nodded awkwardly. So now the cat was definitely out of the bag, he thought. At least Arthur wasn’t furious with him for shutting him up. 

“Sorry, Sire. It won’t happen again.” Merlin mumbled his apology and hastily occupied himself with choosing night clothes for Arthur to change into when he was finished. Even if Merlin did get butterflies in his stomach from hearing him talk about his magic like that, he knew that in the morning when he was sober there may well still be consequences. The sound of gently sloshing water continued behind him as he held up a blue linen shirt, pretending to inspect it for stains, and the Prince spoke again.

“Why did you do it?” There was a tinge of something like suspicion in his voice. Merlin bit his lip as he tried to think of the right thing to say. Eventually, he figured that if Arthur took offence to his reasoning in the morning, he would just claim that the Prince must’ve misunderstood what he meant– being too drunk to listen properly.

Merlin remained facing the bed, away from Arthur, when he spoke, “Only so that the King wouldn’t be angry with you for being, um… for going to the tavern. You just don’t get much chance to have fun like the rest of the knights and I thought he might punish you,” He realised that his tone was maybe too familiar, too affectionate, and stiffened himself consciously, “But it really won’t happen again, I promise. I know the law of Camelot states that magic is–”

“ _Ugh!_ The law of Camelot be damned, Merlin!” Arthur’s interruption was just shy of too loud again, but he quieted himself without being told, “My _father_ would blame even his own rancid breath on sorcery if he could. He’s getting old, and twisted by fear.”

A surprised smile made its way to Merlin’s face, and his heart soared. _That_ was why Arthur didn’t turn him in. He considered for a short moment that perhaps he’d been wrong to judge the Prince as equal to his father, and that maybe he would bring some good to Camelot one day. Maybe… Just maybe, he wasn’t such an unbearable prat, after all. Being lost in his thoughts, Merlin didn’t hear the Prince climb out of the tub, or the footsteps as he approached from behind. He wasn’t expecting Arthur’s low voice to be so close to his ear that he could feel the warm breath on his neck, and he startled when he heard it.

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help me dress?” 

Merlin whirled around, still holding the blue nightshirt that he’d been pretending to examine, and almost stumbled back onto the bed when he saw him. The Prince was barely a foot away from him, arms folded over his muscled chest, smirking with one eyebrow raised. And… _completely_ naked. Too late, Merlin noticed that his eyes had strayed downward, following the trail of darker blonde hair from Arthur’s navel to his exposed manhood, and despite snatching his eyes back up to meet the Prince’s, he knew he’d been caught looking. Burning in his cheeks, Merlin’s blush was every bit as painfully obvious as it felt, and he clutched the nightshirt in his hands so tightly he was concerned he’d rip it in two. 

Arthur didn’t move an inch, watching the flustered boy through lustful eyes, with a wicked smile. He was rock-hard, thanks to Merlin; the moment he’d seen the boy’s eyes flash golden, a shockwave of excitement had zipped through his body, and settled in his groin when he realised that he’d been rendered unable to speak. The combination was more intoxicating than the mead; Merlin’s casual use of such incredible power over him, contrasted by his adorable clumsiness, made Arthur feel both extremely turned on and somehow protective of him at the same time.

In Merlin’s head, the world was spinning, everything was happening at an uncontrollable speed, and he had no idea what to do with himself as he stared down the strapping blonde who had him pinned in place at the end of the bed. He wanted to look again- he knew he shouldn’t, he _definitely_ shouldn’t- but he wanted to, so, _so_ badly. He was almost certain that the Prince was just as worked up as him… that just before he’d looked away, he’d seen Arthur’s cock and he was hard, just like Merlin was now. Of course, Merlin was lucky enough to have been wearing clothes, and he hoped that his breeches did a sufficient job of hiding the rapidly growing erection he was desperately trying to control, if only to deprive the Prince of the satisfaction of knowing he was ‘winning’. He took a hard gulp, struggling to moisten his bone-dry mouth as he twisted the blue shirt in his hands and gawped like a fish, unable to find any words. What was happening? Why was the famously handsome Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot naked, quite naked, in front of him? This seemed a little too far to go just for some banter or a joke, and it wasn’t all that funny from his end, Merlin thought. He shuffled his feet, finding that he was unable to back away from the tall, strong man even the slightest amount when he felt the wooden bedframe against his calves. As the seconds passed by, Merlin grew more frantic, the world spun faster, and he knew he had to say something, _anything_ , to stop this awful trick and escape this tension.

“I’m- Uhh, I-” Before he could continue stammering uselessly, Arthur had leaned in. In one swift movement, he uncrossed his arms, grabbed Merlin’s shoulders firmly on either side and pulled him close, their lips crashing together in a forceful, inelegant kiss. Merlin inhaled sharply through his nose, eyes wide open, and finally, time slowed down. 

He saw everything in half-speed: his own fingers releasing their grip on the nightshirt which then fell silently to the ground between them… Arthur’s eyes fluttering closed as he leaned into their embrace… the water droplets on his skin glimmering under orange candlelight, and the bulge of his biceps as he gripped Merlin harder, pulled him closer, and kissed him deeper. All preoccupations of ‘why’ and ‘what’ ceased to be important, and though he still definitely couldn’t understand any of this at all, Merlin relaxed into Arthur’s grip, his hands coming to rest on the bulkier man’s hips. With every subtle movement, every brush of Arthur’s tongue against his bottom lip, Merlin felt magic bubble up inside of him. When he finally allowed Arthur to have his way and deepen their kiss, fire and sparks raced through his veins, warming every inch of his body- it ignited each nerve and crackled under his skin until it was unbearable, and too hot to hold inside. His brain couldn’t formulate any thoughts- none coherent, anyway, and he was completely mind-blown by the sensory overload that Arthur was causing. Never breaking away, Merlin let go of his burning magic and it flowed from his fingertips like a tingling golden wave over Arthur’s skin. Still at half-speed, Arthur pushed even harder into their kiss, eyes now flickering open, tinges of gold visible when they rolled back in an expression of inescapable bliss, a barely-audible moan vibrating against Merlin’s mouth as the Prince shivered under his touch and steadied himself against Merlin’s shoulders.

When the overwhelming surge of magic had subsided, and time returned abruptly to its regular speed, Arthur exhaled harshly and pulled his lips away from the slight man he had a hold of, studying his shimmering eyes as they faded back to blue. Merlin couldn’t decipher his expression, too distracted by the feeling of Arthur’s solid length pressed against his own hipbone, and the flush of pink which now tinged _Arthur’s_ cheeks for once. He wasn’t entirely sure what his magic had even done to the other man- he’d never used it in this way before, though Arthur definitely seemed to have enjoyed it. He was breathing deep, shaky breaths, still clutching Merlin’s shoulders with a tightness that had become satisfyingly painful. His lips remained parted and Merlin wanted so badly to lunge back into their embrace, to feel that sudden ignition of passion again, to share his magic with the Prince like that again. But Arthur had let go of Merlin’s shoulders before he could move to initiate any more contact. He bent over to snatch the nightshirt from the floor and used it to cover himself- Merlin didn’t get chance to see if he was still hard, and the blonde’s unreadable expression began to perplex him. He seemed uncomfortable all of a sudden. 

“What’s wrong?” Merlin questioned cautiously, his hands no longer on the Prince’s hips, but awkwardly hanging in the air in front of him.

Arthur furrowed his brow when he replied, “What did you just do…? That… what did you do to me?” His voice gave away something which could’ve been fear, but Merlin wished with all his might that it wasn’t. Of all the games they played, of all the power he wished he had over the Prince, he thought he’d enjoy seeing him squirm. But this feeling was awful, and his stomach churned when it dawned on him that he’d somehow managed to scare Arthur.

“I didn’t mean…” Merlin couldn’t think of an explanation. He didn’t _have_ an explanation. Whatever had happened was just as new and bizarre for him as it was for Arthur, and he didn’t know what to say. He thought he’d enjoyed it, but this reaction both worried and confused him. Would Arthur turn him in as a sorcerer now? 

Prince Arthur cleared his throat and looked away, his eyes now investigating the floor of his bedroom. It was still damp from the mess he’d made in the tub. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he spoke in a soft, distant voice which hurt Merlin’s heart.

“I’ll clean this up tonight. I think you should leave, Merlin.”


	4. A Fruitless Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin is losing his mind with worry. What will happen to him now? What will Arthur do to him? Their hunting trip gets off to a bad start, Merlin notices something about his magic is different, and Arthur comes clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has taken longer than expected- I've been moving house among other things. I hope to be able to post more frequently soon! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Thank you to all the new bookmarks/kudos, it means a lot to me. I love seeing new comments too, so do drop a comment if you'd like.
> 
> Much love, and mind your pockets now,
> 
> darling_pickpocket  
> x

Merlin was curled up in a ball on the floor of Gaius’ chambers when the harsh morning sun accosted his sore eyes. The previous night had consisted of the worst sleep he’d ever had- his stomach was filled with a churning fear of what Arthur might decide to do to him, or even to his family should he find them, as a consequence of Merlin’s stupidity. That’s what he’d decided it was: Stupidity. Only someone who was a complete and utter imbecile would ever think it a good idea to use magic… on a Prince… on a _drunk_ Prince… a drunk Prince who was _naked_ and _kissing_ him, no less. Only an idiot would do such a thing, he knew, no matter how irresistible it might’ve felt. Merlin had spent the darkened hours beating himself up inside, stomach churning as he worried incessantly about how he could possibly rectify the situation, and then he watched the sun rise with nothing more gained than a deep ache in his back and shoulders. There on the stone floor, the tortured boy lay in anguished silence until Gaius awoke with a grumble, at which point he dragged himself from the ground and muttered just a few words of apology to the old man for sleeping on his floor before leaving. A twinge of sharp pain pierced his upper back and he did his best not to unfairly resent Gaius for having only one cot in his chambers. Quick and light footsteps tapped through the corridors as Merlin made haste to the courtyard, acutely aware that he had to somehow find the guts to get through the next few days of hunting with the Prince, and also that he was already late to meet him.

Arthur was in the courtyard and prepared to leave for the hunt when Merlin arrived. He hurried sheepishly toward the Prince and watched as Gwaine helped him onto his chestnut-coloured horse, both of them smiling and chatting cheerfully as he did so. It seemed that Arthur had recruited the other knight to help him get ready as payback for besting him in their drinking game. Watching Arthur laugh and joke with Gwaine caused a tiny flicker of hope to glow in Merlin’s chest, slightly melting his fear and shame about his previous actions, and he resisted the rising glow of fondness in his chest when Arthur ran a firm but affectionate hand along his horse’s neck. Quickly enough, however, much of his hope was extinguished when Arthur noticed him approaching. His sunny expression morphed into a stony glare, and he gave Merlin nothing more than a scowl before turning back to the other knight, who he thanked and dismissed with a courteous nod. 

“Do you even know how to be on time, Merlin?” Arthur didn’t look in Merlin’s direction when he spoke, and there was not a semblance of amusement in his tone. Apparently uninterested in receiving a response, he briskly tugged on his horse’s reins and it began to trot off in the direction of the city gates, leaving Merlin to scramble helplessly onto his own horse and hurry to catch up to the Prince. 

The ride to the woods outside the castle walls was agonisingly quiet, and Merlin did his best not to lag behind Arthur as he led them deeper and deeper into the trees, apparently following the trail of a stag spotted earlier in the week. Arthur was definitely off his game, Merlin thought as he studied the stormy expression the Prince was wearing, because they’d been searching hours for the stag, and had seen no trail or markings for ages. Merlin wondered if the other man could feel the sticky energy around them in the same way he could; it was like static, buzzing with discomfort and anticipation, the tension was certainly enough to throw even a highly skilled hunter off track. The most interaction they’d had all day was when Merlin had winced or groaned at his aching back, and Arthur had snapped his head around to glare at him and mutter _‘shut up’_ or _‘completely useless’_ under his breath. The Prince seemed to grow less agitated throughout the day, but still didn’t warm so far as to resume their usual banter; Merlin noticed with flickering amusement that he’d quit holding his head sporadically, too, and chalked that action down to a now-faded hangover. 

The Prince’s hangover aside, there was one question hanging in the air, and lurking in the minds of both men: Who would speak first? Merlin was initially quite positive that it wouldn’t be him, mainly because he didn’t want to make the atmosphere worse by saying something wrong, but the silence was unbearable even to begin with and as the daylight faded to dusk, he found himself longing more and more to speak to the stubborn Prince. It was only when the dim evening shadows began to obscure their vision in the forest, that Merlin found the courage to speak up.

Taking a deep breath, Merlin hurried out his words with a grimace, “Perhaps we should make camp for the night, Sire?” He braced for some snarky, mean-spirited comment from the Prince, but received none. Arthur’s shoulders drooped sluggishly, and he dragged a gloved hand over his face, exhausted. Having halted his horse, he waited a few moments before dismounting to pull his satchel off the horse’s back with a hefty sigh. After quashing the fleeting urge to chuckle at his master’s not-so-Princely slouch, Merlin too dismounted. His chest tightened and the ache in his shoulders seemed to spread there when he stretched out his stiff muscles. A few moments passed whilst Merlin began readying their camp, watching through his peripheral vision as Arthur fumbled around tiredly, and then he cleared his throat, “Maybe we’ll have more luck finding the stag tomorrow?” he tried, hoping to spark a response from the stern-faced Prince.

When Merlin had finished securing the horses, he collected some firewood and breathed a barely-audible incantation to light it. Prince Arthur remained with his elegant palfrey a short distance away, brow rested by the top of its neck and minutely trembling fingers brushing along in a comforting embrace. It was a sweet moment and Merlin was reluctant to interrupt, but eventually approached Arthur to help remove his chain mail. Nervous and unsure where to direct his gaze, Merlin gave him only furtive glances in between fiddling with the buckle on his waist and didn’t see the Prince roll his eyes. He was too distracted and felt at a loss now- it was seemingly impossible to start a conversation with Arthur, but he was unable to bear the consequential silence and the immobilising panic that came with it. The sheer magnitude of his own uselessness came suddenly crashing down in a huge, nauseating wave that drenched his thoughts and forced him to bite his lip so that it would stop trembling. His heart felt heavy from the sludge of unpleasant emotions inside it. He wished that he knew what to do; in his head swirled the wordless prayer he’d repeated all day, pleading with the Gods to give him a sign, to show him how to fix his mess. Arthur’s rich voice pulled him away from the darkening spiral of his own thoughts, hearing it after so long a shock to his senses.

“Why didn’t you just use magic to find the stag?”

Merlin blinked dumbly at the Prince, pausing his struggle to unbuckle the leather belt whilst he tried to process what he’d just heard. Arthur wasn’t looking at him, and his tone was odd… he almost sounded bored, as if he’d decided that magic was nothing special at all, something mundane that he’d seen used a million times over. Merlin clenched his jaw and tried to inconspicuously draw in a calming breath as a spark of indignation quickly flared into a roaring, spitting blaze behind his ribcage and magic prickled like a thousand tiny needles on his fingertips. For a few brief seconds, he contemplated what it would feel like to punch the Prince square in his smug, scowling face, but the fantasy soon evaporated, leaving behind only disappointed resignation. It hurt Merlin that Arthur would behave this way, to be so temperamental and unkind all day, then act as if nothing had happened at all. It was a different kind of power game and he was not a fan of it. Eventually, Merlin convinced himself that the Prince was lashing out on purpose, looking for an argument, and that engaging him would amount to no good. He mumbled something about the use of magic being a bad idea and got back to work on the uncooperative belt buckle. Even if his Highness had suffered through a hangover all day, he should know better than to be so childish in taking it out on his manservant, who knew himself that the Prince would never attempt to display such juvenile spitefulness had they still been in the castle, around the other nobles.

Immediately, Arthur scoffed, his voice dripping with something akin to derision, “You didn’t seem to care about that last night.”

With ears suddenly ringing, Merlin roughly yanked the buckle of Arthur’s belt open before turning and stalking away in complete silence, never once bothering to spare a glance for the Prince. He found a small patch of ground which seemed to be relatively bare of twigs and laid his bedroll on it, sitting with a defiant _thump_ to face the fire. Arthur had moved from the spot he was standing in and taken off the remaining chain mail himself, but Merlin didn’t hear over the crackling and spitting of the burning wood. He watched the flames intently, wishing that the heat would dry his eyes out and prevent him from crying. Knees pressed against his chest, he hugged himself tightly, as if he could somehow squeeze all of the anger, fear, confusion, and embarrassment away. Merlin was quite aware that he’d done wrong in using magic on the Prince, even if it wasn’t entirely intentional, and so he knew that retaliating to Arthur’s snide jabs would only make the situation worse for himself. His stomach felt both hollow and burning hot simultaneously, guilt and indignation tossing his queasy insides in a battle to consume him. 

When the Prince had kissed him, Merlin forgot all the reasons he should’ve pulled away. The seconds beforehand, pinned to the bedframe, he’d wracked his brain for an excuse, an escape, an errand he just _had_ to run, but then Arthur had taken hold of him and everything else fell away. It was a feeling he couldn’t even begin to explain; as if the kingdoms had fallen still and silent in witness of such an act, the skies cleared of cloud and the ocean’s waves frozen in their crest, like the entire world released a breath that had been held for centuries. The magic that consumed Merlin then was untameable and foreign, and rose from a part of him buried so deep it could’ve come up from the ground beneath his feet. Remembering that intensity, that burst of overwhelming, uncontrollable, passionate energy felt like a kick in the teeth now, he thought. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on the memory longer, and the cold empty space between the two men and their vastly differing lives and hearts had never felt so wide or so icy.

It was nearly pitch black, the fire dying, when Merlin was jolted awake by the sound of a branch snapping near his head. He hadn’t even realised he’d fallen asleep. Disoriented, he fumbled around, trying to push himself to sit up on the damp forest floor to see what the danger was, when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” it was Arthur, and he didn’t sound groggy like he usually did after waking, “You can go back to sleep.” Unsure if his head was just cloudy from slumber, Merlin frowned and rubbed his eyes. Slowly, he scanned the area, his eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness of the woods, and there appeared to be no danger or problem whatsoever. The air smelled heavy and earthy, like the damp dirt he’d been lying on mixed with the smoke of the fire and he found it quite pleasant- it was homely somehow. It helped to ground him when the churning in his stomach started up all over again. He turned his stiff neck with a groan to see Arthur knelt beside him, his hand still resting on Merlin’s shoulder. He was wearing the blue nightshirt from the previous evening, and Merlin defied the smile which threatened to show, an unexpected bloom of relief settling in his chest when their eyes met for the first time since then. The Prince’s demeanour was different now, though he maintained an awkward stiffness in his frame as he lowered himself with a crunch of some leaves onto the ground behind the slighter man, legs either side of his. Merlin tensed despite the pleasant warmth of Arthur pressed against him, debating for a few seconds whether he should get up and move away, to put some distance between the two of them. Arthur spoke before he could decide.

“I know you’re angry about something, Merlin.” From behind him, the Prince’s voice seemed teasing, familiar in a way Merlin wasn’t sure if he wanted to enjoy, and he stiffened further when a chin rough with short stubble came to rest on his shoulder. Then, he was being surrounded by muscled arms and drawn back to lean against a warm, firm chest. Bitterness coiled around Merlin’s insides and stilled the churning there as he emerged from his sleepy haze, the tension in his shoulders prompting a defeated sigh from the Prince, “Today hasn’t exactly been pleasant for me, either, you know. I thought my head would never cease pounding.”

Merlin twisted his head just enough for Arthur to see the scowl which contorted his manservant’s face.

“ _Really?_ ”

“Yes, really, _Mer_ lin. Not to mention Gwaine’s incessant jibes, now he’s going to think that he–”

“Oh, of course, _Sire_. You must feel truly dreadful. Really, _poor you_.” Merlin spat the venomous words without looking his master in the eye, wriggling free of his grasp and folding his own arms in defiance.

Arthur’s expression was at first startled, his jaw dropped, before he cocked one eyebrow incredulously, “Excuse me? You know, even you can’t speak to me like–”

“Oh dear, whatever will I do?”

“ _Mer_ lin–”

The furious sorcerer whizzed around where he sat, the air around him rapidly becoming stifling with the heat of reactionary magic as it burned beneath his skin, threatening to overwhelm him for the second time. He pointed an accusatory finger directly at the Prince’s face. “Do you have _any idea_ what you’ve– what I’ve– what the _consequences_ of your actions are?!” he bellowed but stumbled over his words, the scalding rage in them only escalating in response to Arthur’s confused frown, “I’ve been going out of my mind! Oh yes, only me, only _Merlin_ would get himself into a situation like this. The Crown Prince of Camelot waltzes uninvited into my life– which was _perfectly_ fine beforehand, by the way– tears me away from my family, spends his days making a royal mess for _me_ to clean up, then one day decides that, yes! It’d be such a _splendid_ idea to get himself staggering drunk and make this ever-suffering manservant drag him home before he humiliates himself in front of the whole town!”

Merlin was livid, his chest heaving with each ragged breath as he glowered at the Prince, whose mouth hung open as if he wanted to speak, though nothing came out. He forced himself to look away, drawing in a long, shaky breath through pursed lips and releasing it slowly. He tried to focus on the earthy scent of the forest that had grounded him before and drank in the cool night air a few more times to calm himself. Arthur remained silent when he continued, this time quieter, his words tainted with exasperation more than fury.

“And as if almost publicly disgracing yourself wasn’t enough for one night, then you– you _kissed_ me,” his voice faltered, and he cringed inwardly at how much like a blushing maiden he must’ve sounded before hardening his tone and expression simultaneously, “ _Why_ you would do such a thing, I can’t fathom. But I suppose I’m just a nearby source of entertainment for you, anyway. You probably didn’t even think twice- being so used to getting exactly what you want, whenever you want it. Don’t look at me like that! You know as well as I do, it’s not like I could’ve said no to a _Prince._ ”

The hurt that swept across Arthur’s face was unconcealable. It swam around in his guilt-ridden eyes, and he closed his mouth finally, swallowing with an audible gulp. For a while, the only sound to be heard was the gentle rustling of trees and chirping of insects. A chilly breeze blew through their meagre camp and both men resisted a shiver. When Arthur spoke next, it was slowly, carefully, and monotone. Despite his well-curated veneer of diplomacy, though, Merlin saw his bottom lip quiver.

“I apologise for that. If I’d known you were unwilling, I’d never have behaved so… brazenly. Drunkenness is no excuse at all to force oneself upon another. I should have asked. I’m sorry.”

Now it was Merlin’s turn to gape at the man opposite him, blinking dumbfoundedly. He wondered in passing whether some woodland spirit must have possessed the Prince for him to speak so gently to his manservant but shook the thought from his head with a sigh. His eyes dropped then and remained transfixed by the ground as he muttered a response that brought a startling flush to his cheeks.

“I never said that I was unwilling. I’d just rather not be… used… for your passing amusement. You might be the son of the King, but that doesn’t allow you the right to treat me as some strumpet for purchase. I believed you a nobler man, Arthur,” a quick glance upward revealed that the Prince was shaking his head, a frenetic expression plastered over his face, and Merlin sighed again defeatedly, “And I didn’t mean to use magic on you. It just… happened… almost like it wasn’t even my own… and then I didn’t sleep for worrying what my punishment would be, then today you were so angry with me and I just–”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Arthur held up his hand in protest and shook his head once more, “Your _punishment?_ Merlin, what are you talking about? Why would I be angry with you?”

Breath hitched in Merlin’s throat and he suddenly found himself stammering, tripping over his words again as his voice grew desperate, “You- You told me to leave! Right after you kissed me!” Arthur blinked at him inanely, a pink hue colouring his cheeks. Merlin narrowed his eyes, “And you were so _rude_ to me this morning… Never mind what you said to me earlier about using magic carelessly…”

An awkward cough cut through the thickening atmosphere as Arthur cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact with his manservant, “Yes… Well… Again, I apologise for that. I was… struggling to keep my composure this morning. I shan’t be drinking with Gwaine again, that, I’m certain of.”

“You were still _drunk!_ ”

“Obviously not,” Arthur retorted, barely managing to conceal the embarrassed grimace cracking through his steely exterior, “Because if word of something of that nature got around the castle, I’d surely be the first Prince this century to face the stocks.”

Merlin couldn’t help it. He wanted to be angry, he wanted to cling to his fury and righteous indignation until Arthur made it up to him somehow, but he couldn’t. The snort of laughter that he allowed to escape was quickly followed by one from the Prince himself, then even more began to bubble in Merlin’s belly; he gnawed on his bottom lip to stifle it as he returned his gaze to Arthur, where a shamefaced grin had finally emerged through the veneer, and he was positively ruby in colour. He fiddled with nothing in his fingers, studying the guilty look on the blonde’s face for a while.

“I really didn’t mean to use magic on you. I promise. It was an accident.”

Another grimace twisted Arthur’s features and he dragged a hand over his face before taking a deep breath, “I was never upset about that, Merlin, but you have to understand… I’ve never– Nobody has ever done that to me before. Made me feel like that.” His manservant’s perplexed frown prompted him to continue explaining, “When it’s just you and I, things are… different. To me, you aren’t just a servant, but nobody else can know that, do you understand?” Merlin nodded weakly. He did understand. “It simply isn’t done. My father will only avert his eyes from a certain amount of impropriety for my sake and if he comes to believe you’re at risk of sullying the Pendragon name, nothing I can say will save your head. Regardless, I shouldn’t have been rude to you. I’ve been trying for years to unlearn his influence, Merlin, but it takes time.”

Though he’d known all of this already, Merlin’s heart sank a little from the confirmation that he’d never push past the barriers of his social status. He’d always be considered a stain on Camelot, even more so because he was a sorcerer, no matter how hard he worked to serve Arthur. The minutes stretched by whilst Merlin processed that fact, wondering whether Arthur himself would ever learn to truly consider him an equal, wondering whether he’d be better off leaving Camelot for good and roaming the Kingdoms alone, until he found his family, or another group to blend in with. He knew that he was safer within the citadel, but only if he concealed his identity and never revealed his true self. He’d be comfortable, but would he ever be happy?

Eventually, Arthur shuffled over to him. The Prince was hesitant when he reached out, waiting to see if Merlin would turn away again. Merlin glanced up at him with watery eyes and was met with a warm but faint smile that spoke of understanding and apology. He was then encircled by the Prince’s strong arms and leaned into the comforting embrace, his head tucked under a stubbled chin, and he allowed a few silent tears to fall.


	5. The Stag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A creature of darkness invades Merlin's dreams, but Arthur's not so sure it'll stay there. Uther takes protective measures, but our Prince is- obviously- not pleased with them at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones a bit of a long one! Thanks to all who are reading, and thank you for the kudos! Recently I've been brainstorming another fic idea, so if you're interested in reading that too, keep your eyes peeled. I hope you all enjoy this next chapter!  
> Please bear with the ridiculous separations, I don't know how to use HTML at all and they are only there to show some vaguely defined transition periods, haha.
> 
> Much love, and mind your pockets now,  
> darling_pickpocket  
> x
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: While proofreading this after posting it, I realised theres an important phrase missing that introduces Isabette properly!! I've added it in now, it's not much, but it irked me that she was just plonked into a paragraph. Terribly sorry.

Merlin’s eyes snapped open, fast as arrows slicing through the air. His heart thundered against his ribcage, begging to burst free, ready to explode. When he tried to reach out, tried to leap to his feet and run, there was no response from his dulled and heavy limbs. His head would not turn, his mouth would not scream, and he knew he was utterly, truly, helpless. A terror pure and dark as the blackest night seared through his veins, chilling him to the bone despite the sweat which beaded on his brow, as he battled to slow the jagged breaths burning his lungs and drying his throat. He could see nothing more than the canopy of the trees under which he lay and a few stars twinkling weakly in the distant sky. 

The phantom dread flooding his body intensified impossibly when he finally caught sight of it: a dense, black cloud overhead. It hovered among the tree trunks and roamed the space there ominously, as if searching for something, and Merlin found himself instinctively trying to hide despite his paralysis. He knew it would hear him panting– somehow, he just _knew_ it was alive and more importantly, malevolent– so he held his breath. It was the only act of self-preservation that he could will his unresponsive body to perform, and it wasn’t going to be enough. His lungs blazed with the effort, pleading for reprieve as the seconds dragged by, and he began to grow dizzy; the amorphous entity above him was unrelenting in its investigation and he felt the agitation radiating from it until the moment he could hold his breath no longer. The gasp was desperate, unrestrained, and obviously audible, he realised, for as soon as he’d vacuumed in a harsh current of the chilly night air, the swirling black mass froze in position.

It seemed to turn on him. 

Then it was moving, descending, concentrating it’s being into an opaque yet formless void, emanating such potent evil that it made him want to vomit as it hurtled toward the ground where he lay, defenceless and hyperventilating. When it consumed him, it tore the breath from his chest with the ease and swiftness of a hot knife through butter, wrenching his ribcage open, twisting and contorting his body against the cool forest floor, and he could do nothing more than weep in silent agony as his bones crunched and snapped beneath his skin. 

It whispered to him once, twice, his own name, and then there was nothing left of him. 

He was unmoving, broken, lifeless, and the malicious darkness echoed his name into the silence of the woods.

 ------------------------------------------------------------- 

_“Merlin!”_

Like taut rubber springing slack, Merlin shot up from the ground, his hands scrambling against the dirt and legs kicking out uselessly in panic. His eyes were cloudy, so it took him a few more seconds to blink away his nightmare and realise that the hands clamped so hard onto his shoulders were those of his master, Prince Arthur. They remained there, a vice-like grip on the boy’s trembling frame, until Merlin’s disorientation waned, and he looked the Prince in the eye.

Arthur’s expression showcased a turmoil of great proportion; brow furrowed in concern, eyes wide in fear, lips pursed, jaw clenched. His body was tense and coiled as if he were ready to pounce at any second, and he was lowered onto one knee beside Merlin, half-dressed in only his breeches like he’d just been asleep. That suspicion was confirmed in Merlin’s head when he registered the unruly nest of flaxen hair, still messy from lying down. Without pausing to think, Merlin threw himself into the Prince, knocking him onto his backside as he clutched at the bewildered man’s bare chest and arms, and after a moment of surprise, Arthur enveloped him in a crushing embrace. It took Merlin a few minutes to slow his shaky breathing and compose himself enough to withdraw his face from the curve of the Prince’s shoulder, but he was given no extra space to pull away. Arthur’s strong arms remained in place and held the two men firmly pressed against one another, only slightly releasing his hold to stroke a soothing hand along the clothed, but clammy skin of Merlin’s back. Merlin took comfort in Arthur’s purposefully steady, slow breaths, and as the minutes fell away, he began to calm down.

“What happened?” Arthur questioned tentatively, his tone warm with concern, “You were screaming for ages, but I couldn’t wake you. Are you alright?” He held Merlin tightly still, but a few inches away so that he could see his face. 

Merlin’s lip trembled with the effort of repressing his tears, but his chest warmed a little more with every second that Arthur’s arms encircled him with such care. It wasn’t real. The cloud had been a nightmare, no matter how tangible that terror had felt, or how excruciating it had been when each of his bones had shattered, one by one, by power of unseen hands… He shuddered. Arthur held him tighter still.

Through a wet and shaky breath, he tried to speak, “It was… So _horrible_ , I can’t–” his throat constricted again, and his tears threatened to spill. Blinking them away, he paused to draw in another slow breath before he was ready to continue, “It was after me, and I couldn’t run or hide, I– I could only lie there and let it… hurt me… let it…” He stopped. This time he wasn’t quick enough, and a lone tear managed to escape from the corner of his eye. Telling Arthur that he’d died, that the evil creature had _killed_ him, felt too much like tempting fate. He turned away and hid his face against Arthur’s chest, the hand which then came to rest at the back of his head a welcome comfort. Rough fingers traced lazy patterns through Merlin’s damp hair, along his scalp, and his fragile state crumbled as he finally felt something akin to safety warm him. The tears poured out of him then, silently at first, but when Arthur lowered his head to murmur soothing nonsense into the space behind his ear, Merlin unravelled and started bawling. Through anguished sobs, he whimpered almost incoherently, the words spilling out of him, how it was so _real_ , so painful, so terrifying, and Arthur simmered with a mixture of deep concern and vengeful rage every time a renewed torrent of tears wracked his young manservant’s body. 

They remained entangled in each other as dawn passed, and then for the majority of the morning; the Prince was determined to stay exactly as they were for as long as Merlin needed, all day, if necessary. But before the sun reached its zenith, his eyes had run dry, and Merlin wriggled unsteadily to sit himself straight, Arthur reluctantly relinquishing him from his grasp. Noticing the worried expression twisting his master’s features, Merlin smiled weakly and scrubbed a still-clammy hand over his own face, sighing as he did.

“I know it was only a nightmare, Sire” his gut twisted in disagreement, “I’m sorry that I’ve wasted your morning of hunting.”

Arthur’s expression was stony now, his mouth set in a straight line and a furious storm brewing behind his darkened eyes, “It’s quite obvious that’s not the case, Merlin. I’ve never known a man fear for his life so genuinely after a _nightmare_. It must have been something else… My father would suspect the involvement of dark magic.”

“And you suspect the same?”

There was no answer to Merlin’s question, and he hadn’t really expected one. Of course, Arthur suspected sorcery– after all, the King had been poisoning his mind for years with misguided horror stories about magic. Spending less than two moons alongside perhaps the only sorcerer he’d ever really known would hardly change that. Besides, even if he was reluctant to admit it at first, Merlin had the same suspicion. Arthur’s eyes locked onto his own, staring him down with determination, “Who was it, Merlin? Tell me who it was in your dream.” 

A slight shiver tickled over Merlin’s skin upon hearing the possessive note in Arthur’s voice and seeing his fists clenched on his lap– like he was ready to spring up and scour the Kingdom to find, and subsequently pulverise, whoever Merlin named. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, but he chewed on his lip in resistance to it. 

“I can’t tell you because I don’t know. It wasn’t a person. It was some kind of… creature? Entity?” He shook his head in frustration, “All I can say for sure is that it was pure evil. Whatever, or whoever, came to me in that dream, wanted only to cause suffering.” And it worked, he thought. 

After forcing down a fist-sized chunk of hard, dry bread at the command of the Prince (who, he thought, took a bit too much amusement in seeing him grimace with each stale bite), the pair gathered and tidied their meagre camp, and set off in the direction of the city walls. Arthur had been adamant that they return to the castle immediately in order to inform the King of this potential threat to the people of Camelot, and though Merlin was loath to re-live the experience any more times, he agreed to do so. Whether or not the cloud had been a figment of his sleeping imagination, he didn’t want to risk endangering other innocent people on the off chance that dark magic _was_ at work like they suspected.

They’d packed up and had been plodding slowly toward the edge of the wood for perhaps half an hour, when Merlin’s horse stirred uneasily beneath him, recoiling with a grunt in response to, seemingly, thin air. Merlin reached down and stroked gently, making shushing sounds to try and calm his spooked horse as he patted its neck. Arthur had paused for a moment too, glancing back at Merlin with a wonky grin and a cocked eyebrow, poking fun, and was met with a half-hearted scowl. The forest was quiet aside from birdsong, almost idyllic, and Merlin tried to channel some of that peaceful energy into his fingers. When the horse seemed to have calmed somewhat, they made to move on. Merlin hadn’t explored these woods much in his life, pointedly avoiding Camelot for the safety of he and his family, but he could see in his head the path they would take. Something in his mind’s eye made his stomach clench, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint it, and so he chalked it down to his lingering anxiety from the nightmare. 

A short while after, there came into view a clearing in the trees. Merlin’s stomach churned again. With every step closer, his heart stuttered more aggressively in his chest, and his horse grew more agitated below him. There was something right in the middle of the empty, grassy patch of woodland- something that he couldn’t see clearly yet, but that he could feel. It made him queasy with anxiety. The birds had stopped singing or had all flown away at some point, leaving behind them an eerie silence that was most unnerving. Then he felt it. Familiar dread, deep and sludgy, settled into his skin and chilled him to the bone. 

“Arthur,” he made to warn the Prince, but his voice came out a whisper. He cleared his throat, “Arth–”

Beneath him, his horse grunted fearfully, recoiling again and stumbling in place. Arthur looked back, amused expression quickly falling to a frown when it met his manservant’s panicked eyes, and though Merlin willed his limbs to move, he was frozen in place by an icy fear. The agitated horse stomped the ground and shook its head, and neither men had chance to dismount or call out before it gave a frenzied scream and reared, once, then again, and Merlin was flung backwards off his saddle. The horse bolted in the opposite direction, squealing and snorting, and he landed with a dull _thud_ on the ground.

“Merlin!” Arthur launched himself off his own saddle and scrambled across the dirt, kneeling with a crunch next to his winded and grimacing manservant. His wide-eyed expression washed away after he’d checked Merlin over with frantic hands and realised that he was largely uninjured. “You idiot. You could’ve been hurt! Remind me to teach you how to control a damned horse when we get back.” 

Merlin didn’t shoot back with his usual sarcasm. He hadn’t even looked at his master when he spoke, transfixed by the indistinct lump of _something_ in the clearing ahead. With Arthur’s help, he groaned as he stood, giving a half-hearted stretch. Then, as if by their own will, Merlin’s legs began moving, taking him in the direction of the clearing despite the blaring alarm in his head. The Prince had followed him and reached the clearing only seconds after he did– just in time to snap out a steadying arm for Merlin when he stumbled dizzily in reaction to the sight before him.

The stag was dead, or very close to being so. Its swollen, purple tongue lolled from the side of its mouth, blood dripping onto the ground below, staining the lush grass to a slick red. All four of its legs were horrifically broken, jagged bone piercing through hide, and its chest appeared to have been torn open in a fashion no self-respecting hunter would practise. Merlin’s sore eyes blurred as unwelcome tears threatened to spill over again. He knew that this animal had died in unbearable agony, helpless and petrified, just as he had last night. He knew it because he felt it, the evil– it remained on the stag like a lingering foul smell, thickening the air like invisible smog. Without warning, Merlin’s abdomen tightened abruptly, and he lurched away, staggering to his knees at the edge of the clearing where he emptied the contents of his stomach, and then promptly passed out.

When Merlin next awoke, he was in a plush, cosy bed. It was dark, the room only illuminated by the light of a few dying candles, and so he knew he must’ve been out for quite a few hours. The long rest had been truly needed, and he was grateful to have some semblance of energy back, though he was certain he must look like death after his ordeal. Foggy eyes darted about the darkened room– he recognised it as Arthur’s bedchamber, and that meant that he was in Prince Arthur’s bed. He gulped audibly, suddenly a little nervous, and shifted to a seated position against the silk pillows behind him, wondering how Arthur could ever have grumpy mornings after sleeping on such luxury. His muscles ached as if he’d exerted himself a great deal, but there was a relieving lack of that familiar dread in his chest, and he relished in taking a deep, unburdened breath.

Beside him, a stirring sound caught his attention, and he turned to focus on the Prince, slouched haphazardly over a wooden chair at his bedside. Warmth sparked in his belly and he couldn’t resist a soft smile as he looked upon the brave, gallant Arthur Pendragon, sleeping most ungracefully, a gentle frown still crumpling his brow as he dreamt. Merlin allowed himself a moment to appreciate his master like this, peaceful, for the most part, and undeniably beautiful in the flickering golden candlelight. Unwashed hair sticking out in all directions and stubble shadowing the lower half of his face, Arthur was unkempt as a consequence of his manservant being unconscious for so long, but he wore a change of clothes. The rust-coloured linen shirt was unlaced, as he usually left them when in the confines of his own chambers, and it revealed a delicious triangle of Arthur’s muscled chest. Merlin knew that Arthur would make fun of him for staring like this, had he been awake, but allowed a mischievous grin to slide onto his face.

The Prince was close enough to his beside that he could reach him without stretching, and so he indulged himself for a moment, testing the water with a gentle touch to Arthur’s wrist, dangling off the arm of the chair. No reaction. He brushed across Arthur’s thumb with the tips of his fingers and then over to his palm. The skin there was rough, thick, caused by his rigorous training schedule; as a Prince, he was expected to know how to defend himself, Camelot, and her people with a sword. Merlin was pondering on how heavy that responsibility must be for a man still so young as Arthur, when the Prince stirred again, this time apparently having noticed the fingers tracing his skin, and he took hold of Merlin’s hand. A startled glance upward told Merlin that Arthur was still sleeping, and so he relaxed into the action, maintaining a soft grip on his master’s hand and stroking a thumb over his rough fingers. Arthur smiled in his sleep, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. The tiny movement shot a bolt of energy up Merlin’s spine, his eyes locked on the Prince’s lips, remembering all of a sudden how magnificent it was to kiss them, how right it felt. A few pinpricks of magic tingled mischievously at his fingertips and he withdrew his hand from Arthur’s rapidly, the sudden movement startling the Prince awake. His heart sank a little knowing that the precious moment was over, but he couldn’t risk using magic on the Prince while he slept, even accidentally.

Eyes fluttering, Arthur took a deep breath and slowly relaxed his tense body as he found his bearings in the dim light of his chambers. A warm smile appeared when he locked eyes with Merlin, who hadn’t realised that he looked rather wide-eyed and guilty until the Prince glanced down at his own hand, resting on the edge of the bed, and then Merlin’s, balled into a fist against his chest after being snatched away. Arthur grinned but didn’t comment.

“I’m in your bed.” Merlin stated dumbly and cringed at himself.

With a breathy chuckle, Arthur straightened in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes, “Yes, well observed, Merlin.”

“Oh. Uh… Any particular reason why?”

Flattening his messy hair, Arthur gave a confused frown and shrugged, “It’s more comfortable than yours. I was trying to be nice and figured you might sleep more soundly here. I won’t bother in future…” he was kidding, Merlin knew, and he did genuinely appreciate the consideration. 

The Prince rose from his chair and stretched out his arms, the fabric of his tunic slipping up past his hips and revealing a slither of skin and the smattering of mousey hair there. Merlin’s face warmed at the sight, prompting a questioning smirk from Arthur, who shifted his weight onto one foot and didn’t lower his arms until his manservant looked away, embarrassed. 

“We’ll need to visit my father in the morning to inform him of what you saw last night,” Arthur ambled lazily across the room as he spoke, pouring himself a goblet of water from the jug on his nightstand, “Will you be ready to talk about it by then?”

Merlin wasn’t too sure about that, but he knew he had little choice in reality; Arthur was only asking to be polite, ever the diplomat that he was trained to be. He nodded, attempting a reassuring smile to the Prince, who was sporting a very doubtful expression of his own, but didn’t argue. Swallowing to moisten his dry throat, Merlin posed a nervous question. “What about the stag?”

“What about it? Wild animals attack each other sometimes. It happens.” His master was trying to sound nonchalant, but Merlin wasn’t so easily fooled, and tilted his head in disbelief. 

“You don’t think it was strange? What wild animal do you imagine could overpower a stag, tear open its chest, and break all of its legs like that?” he frowned at Arthur when he turned away, “I think you know what killed that stag. I know that I do.”

A heavy sigh left the Prince’s lips and he returned to the side of the bed, leaning against one of the wooden corner posts, and it creaked under the weight. He cast his gaze to the ground, chewing on his bottom lip in silence for a moment before he spoke, almost a whisper, “Was it the same? In the nightmare? I mean… Did– did it do that to _you_ too?” 

When Arthur finally tore his eyes from his feet and looked at him, Merlin’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. His expression was guilt-ridden, like he was worried that Merlin would shatter into a million pieces in front of him… Like he already knew the answer to his question. Like he really didn’t want to hear Merlin confirm those fears. So, he didn’t. He didn’t say a word, only lowered his eyes and fiddled with nothing in his hands. In his peripheral vision, he noticed one of the few remaining candles flicker before dying out. They remained that way for several uncomfortable minutes, neither knowing what to say to the other, and then Arthur straightened in place. Merlin looked up from his hands, watched Arthur kick off his boots, then, without warning, his breeches too. He swiftly averted his eyes and his cheeks burned red when Arthur pulled back the bedcovers and clambered into the bed inelegantly, his tone overly casual when he spoke next.

“You should get some more sleep, Merlin. You’ll be needing the rest.”

Immediately, Merlin threw off the bedsheets (perhaps a bit too frantically), and scrambled out of the Prince’s bed, shaky hands attempting to smooth the slept-in wrinkles in his clothes as he stammered, “Yes! Yes, of course. I’ll be off then, Sire. Goodn–” 

“Don’t be stupid, Merlin.” Arthur wasn’t even facing him, but Merlin could tell he had a smug grin on his face. For a second, he’d been perplexed, but then the Prince rolled over from his back to look at his awkward manservant, still dishevelled despite his attempts to smarten himself, and gave a low chuckle that made him shiver. “Get back in. If I wanted you to leave, I’d have said so.”

He battled with his frenzied emotions and pounding heart to try and keep a straight face as he slid back into bed next to the Prince, who watched him in amusement the whole time. It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to be in bed with Prince Arthur– in fact he’d fantasised about this exact moment for many nights throughout all his teenage years– but he knew this wasn’t going to end quite in the same way as those fantasies. Merlin felt his face flush again as he imagined himself and Arthur sweaty, panting, and exhausted after a night of forbidden passion, and prayed that the other man hadn’t noticed in the dimly lit room. Once settled against the soft and inviting comfort of those silken pillows, it was easier for Merlin to relax, as his fatigue began to overpower his nerves. He knew that Arthur was so close, and still watching him– he couldn’t resist shooting him furtive glances out of the corner of his eye every few seconds, just to check.

Finally, Merlin closed his eyes and pulsed a gentle burst of magic which extinguished the remaining candle flames and elicited a quiet gasp from the Prince next to him. He smiled serenely and rolled onto his side, now able to appreciate the luxury of the royal bed without Arthur’s eyes on him. He was drifting slowly to sleep in a state of long-awaited relaxation, when he registered movement behind him, and then a careful hand resting on his shoulder. Merlin remained still and hoped that Arthur would believe him asleep, trying to ignore the hot breath ghosting over the back of his neck. But he couldn’t ignore it, and an involuntary shiver gave him away, prompting a barely-audible breath of laughter from the man pressed against his back.

“Shut up, you.” He slurred at the Prince, his tired tongue getting the better of him.

Arthur laughed quietly again, then his lips were on Merlin’s neck, pressing a warm, lingering kiss onto the space behind his ear, melting the hostility that was only half-serious in the first place. When he withdrew, it was by less than an inch. He whispered a low ‘goodnight’, leaving his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and they both succumbed to sleep.

\------------------------------------------------------------- 

“What are you playing at?!” 

Merlin’s voice was shrill, embarrassed, and his breath hitched in his throat. He’d woken up almost serenely, Arthur still holding him from behind in a warm and comforting embrace. But then, as soon as he’d rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he’d noticed the hot, hard length pressed against his backside and instinctively leapt out of bed. Arthur awoke with a jump, shaking his head, blinking furiously. His sleepy gaze settled on a wide-eyed Merlin, standing poker-straight with his palms out, hands in the air, and shrieking about… what? 

He scrunched his eyes and groaned, giving a languid stretch before cocking one eyebrow at his manservant, “What’s the matter with you?”

“You’re, um, you… Can you…” he was scarlet, babbling, avoiding eye contact and gesturing vaguely at the bedsheets that still covered Arthur, “You’re… _Afflicted_ … Just…”

Merlin looked everywhere in the room except at his master, who was clearly not fully awake and quite baffled by his behaviour. He couldn’t help that now, though. There wasn’t even a second taken to think before Merlin had launched himself out of the bed, and the shrill outburst had been entirely involuntary. As the seconds passed, him standing uncomfortably next to the bed, and Arthur just _not getting it_ , he felt the regret and humiliation set in. He’d overreacted. Rubbing his eyes lazily, Arthur scanned the bedsheets in search of whatever Merlin was talking about. He paused. Merlin gnawed on his lip in embarrassment when he watched the realisation flood his master’s face, and then focused his gaze intently on the ceiling to avoid his smug amusement.

“I’m _afflicted?_ ” A surprised laugh burst free of the Prince and he slumped back against the pillows, “Is that what they’re calling it nowadays? Good Gods, Merlin, calm yourself. You’re acting like some virgin maid.”

“It’s… inappropriate.” He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, arms still up in defence of his innocence. His face burned.

Another coarse laugh rang through the Prince’s chambers, and Arthur propped himself up on one elbow, “Inappropriate? I was asleep! Besides,” he inclined his head and gestured back at Merlin with a gleeful grin, “You aren’t exactly in a position to judge me on my propriety, it seems.” Merlin then glanced at Arthur and followed the line of his gesture to his own groin, where he’d apparently been unknowingly sporting a very obvious tent in his breeches. His ears rang deafeningly, and he groaned, snapping his hands down to cover himself as he swore under his breath. The Prince sniggered as he twisted and climbed out of bed, facing the opposite wall to give Merlin a second to compose himself.

Merlin cleared his throat loudly. Arthur turned back again to his pink-flushed manservant who was attempting a straight face, then smirked, but made no further comment on the matter, instead changing subject to the day’s plans. “You’ll break your fast with my father and I this morning. It’s imperative that he hears of the darkness infiltrating the Kingdom at once.”

A concerned and confused frown twisted Merlin’s features, “Sire… take breakfast _with_ the King? Are you sure? I’m just a servant, and I don’t think he really likes me…”

“He’ll have to deal with it,” Arthur retorted, confident in a way that Merlin envied, “If he wants to hear about this potential threat to his people, that is. Anyway, I’ll be there too, so you needn’t worry, Merlin.”

When Prince Arthur was washed, dressed, and combed, and Merlin had taken a few minutes to refresh himself too, the pair set off through the white corridors of the castle. They headed to the kitchens, where Arthur collared a young, dark-haired serving girl who was so thin she looked as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. She was new to the castle– another street urchin that Morgana had taken pity on– and Merlin hadn’t had the opportunity to get to know her yet. She seemed reluctant; the most he knew of the timid and frail girl was her name: Isabette. The Prince’s tone was different when he spoke with the maidservants; slower, softer, like he didn’t want to scare them, and it brought a subtle smile to Merlin’s face. After instructing Isabette to inform the King of their imminent arrival and report back with his breakfast requests, Arthur strode on into the sweltering kitchens and inhaled the smells in a long, deep breath. 

The rich scents of freshly baked bread, frying bacon, and sweet, flowery honey drifted through the air. Merlin’s stomach growled immediately in response and he had to restrain himself from dipping a finger into a pot of syrupy honey on the countertop next to him. Arthur, it appeared, didn’t have to restrain himself from doing _anything_ , and Merlin almost let slip a wounded cry when his master did exactly that, and stuck his finger in his mouth to catch the honey which was running down to his knuckle. It must’ve been quite the sight, he imagined; Prince Arthur Pendragon locking eyes with his manservant in a smouldering exchange as he licked the remainder of the honey from his finger. Merlin was afraid he’d start to drool soon, either that or his knees would buckle, swooning like some kind of damsel.

“Want some?” Arthur’s voice was like the honey itself to Merlin’s ears, sweet but with a tang of something else behind it– though that something definitely wasn’t floral. It made his cheeks flush. “The honey, I mean.” 

Casting a flustered and frantic glance around the kitchens to see if anyone had heard the comment, Merlin spluttered out something that was supposed to be ‘no’, but definitely wasn’t. He scowled at the Prince, then avoided looking at his smirking face while they waited.

After Isabette had returned to them, the pair made their way to the King’s chambers, Merlin growing more and more anxious with each step. Knowing he’d have to recount to the King the excruciating details of his nightmare made his stomach twist and churn– even thinking about it made him sweat and he wasn’t certain if he’d actually be able to do it. Arthur nodded politely to the guards either side of the old wooden door when they arrived and thanked them as he stepped through the doorway. Like a duckling to its mother, Merlin followed, the uncomfortable atmosphere of Uther Pendragon’s chambers intensifying when he saw the disdainful grimace on the aging monarch’s face. He wanted to turn and run, but Arthur greeted his father in his usual cheery manner and moved to sit at the table with him, throwing Merlin a sympathetic half-smile over his shoulder. Despite his anxiety, Merlin managed to compose himself enough to follow the rules of etiquette that he’d reluctantly learned since his employment in the castle. He knew better than to join their table without permission and stood behind the chair next to the one Arthur was sat in, head bowed, until the King muttered for him to be seated.

“This was a pleasant surprise, Arthur,” Uther cast an emotionless glance in Merlin’s direction, a motion that he understood to mean he was not included in the King’s statement, “But I must admit, I can’t help feeling suspicious. You’ve never expressed an interest before in taking breakfast with me.”

After sipping from a goblet of water, Arthur smiled and cleared his throat, “Yes, and you are right to feel as such, father. We bring troubling reports from beyond the citadel walls.”

“ _We?_ You and the boy?” 

The Prince nodded politely in response and Merlin smothered a begrudging scowl. Before they could continue, the guards opened the chamber door again, and in scuttled three timid serving girls. Isabette was among them, and Merlin could see her fingers trembling as she lowered a platter of bacon and bread onto the table in front of the King. One of the others placed a bowl of honeyed porridge in front of him and he felt the urge to drool resurface– it was rare that Merlin got the opportunity to have honey in his meals. When the serving girls had left, Arthur tucked in to his own breakfast– the same as his father’s, and Merlin waited for Uther to begin as well. He didn’t. Through a mouthful of bread, Arthur began to explain their news to the King, Merlin sitting in silence with hands clasped on his lap, itching to start on his porridge.

“The reason for our early return from hunting is that we– Merlin, actually– experienced something quite unnerving in the Darkling wood. I believe that whatever caused this dreadful experience may pose a danger to Camelot and her people.”

Uther looked away from his son and to Merlin instead, an expectant and frustrated frown crinkling his already-wrinkled brow. He swallowed uncomfortably and took a long breath.

“I had a nightmare, Your Highness,” immediately, Uther scoffed and rolled his eyes, but Merlin continued hurriedly, “It wasn’t _just_ a nightmare, though, Sire. I– _we_ believe that dark magic was its cause. It was… extremely violent.”

The King’s unimpressed expression prompted Arthur to interrupt.

“On the ride back to the castle, we also came across a fatally injured stag– it was killed by no mortal creature, I’m certain.” He lowered his eyes and paused, “It’s injuries matched those that Merlin was victim to in his nightmare. It had been completely torn open, and all of its limbs were broken.” 

Only then did Merlin see a flash of emotion cross the King’s face. For a brief second, he believed that Uther Pendragon was afraid. His stomach growled, though only loud enough for Arthur to notice, and the Prince turned his head to frown and nod at the bowl of rapidly cooling porridge. Merlin acknowledged the permission with a resigned shake of his head; he felt too ill to eat now, the mental image of the dead stag twisting his gut in a vice.

“Boy, describe the creature that attacked you to me.” Uther demanded.

He gulped, “It’s hard to describe, Your Grace. It looked like… a cloud… but it was black as night and filled me with dread and fear. It wasn’t of this world, I know it.” 

Leaning back in his ornate chair, Uther Pendragon scratched his stubbled chin pensively. For a while nobody spoke, and the silence gave Merlin’s uncooperative mind the chance to replay snippets of the nightmare, much to his dismay. By the time the King spoke again, both he and Arthur had finished their breakfasts.

“I’m glad you brought this matter to my attention, Arthur. A handful of common folk have recently petitioned the Crown for aid after finding their livestock in similar states as you described. I’d dismissed their concerns previously, but one can never be too careful when dealing with threats involving sorcery.” His tone was grave, and though Merlin expected it, there was no accusing glance thrown his way. Uther straightened in his seat. “From tonight there is to be a curfew imposed on the citadel. Nobody is to leave their homes past dark, until the source of this magic is discovered and eradicated– and _yes_ , Arthur. That includes you.”

Arthur shoved the door to his chambers so hard that it hammered against the wall and shook the heavy cabinet next to it, striding into the room with his fists balled at his sides. He’d left his father’s chambers quietly, politely, and without issue, but Merlin had known he wasn’t pleased from the pace at which they returned through the corridors. Then had come the ranting.

“I mean, seriously, Merlin! Does he think I’m still a child?” The Prince, seething, threw himself backwards onto his bed with a _whump_. Merlin suppressed a laugh. “I’m one of his most capable Knights– _the_ most capable! I should be out there, tracking down that creature, protecting the people of Camelot, _as is my duty_. One day I’ll succeed him as King, but how will I ever be ready for the title if he confines me to the castle at the first sign of danger?”

Pretending to inspect the door for damage, Merlin sighed, “I don’t know, Sire. The King is afraid of magic, you know that, and I imagine he’s trying to protect you.” He hoped that his sarcasm was evident.

Arthur groaned and dragged both his hands over his face, then pushed himself up to a sitting position, his legs hanging over the end of the bed. For a while, he watched with a subtle smile as Merlin pottered about his chambers, tidying and organising. Obviously, Merlin felt the Prince’s eyes on him, but he did his best to ignore the nervous feeling it gave him and focused on clearing the cluttered mess spread over Arthur’s desk. As he was gathering some papers, shuffling them into a pile, a sharp sting caught his finger and he flinched backwards with a wince, a bead of scarlet blood appearing from a small but deep slice in his fingertip. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Arthur abruptly get to his feet and take one urgent step forward– then he seemed to remember himself and approached the desk slowly. Merlin had carefully moved the papers away with his other hand, and now reached for the long, beautifully polished dagger that he figured must’ve caused his injury. He recognised it immediately as the dagger with which Arthur had threatened him on the day they first met.

“You remember Astrum, then?” chuckled the Prince from beside him, accepting the blade with a grin when Merlin handed it to him, “This was actually a gift from my father, for winning my first tournament. Isn’t it beautiful?”

It was, Merlin thought. In the hilt of the blade there were a constellation of small blue gemstones that glittered like none he’d ever seen, and though he’d believed it to be steel before, it appeared now to be made from silver. It was an unusual blade for a prince to own and seemed quite delicate; Merlin would’ve believed it more of a decorative piece if he hadn’t once felt its sharp edge on his lip. Arthur carefully placed the dagger into one of his desk drawers, then turned back to his manservant, grabbing his cut finger and holding it close to his face to inspect.

“You need to be more careful. I have bigger, sharper blades than this, you know. It simply wouldn’t do to have to drag my _wounded_ manservant through the corridors after curfew.” He didn’t look Merlin in the eye, only grinned to himself.

“ _What?_ ”

“You’d complain far too much. Can you heal this?”

“Yes, I can– Arthur– What are you on about? We aren’t going anywhere after curfew.”

The cheeky grin remained on Arthur’s face despite the frustrated frown on that of his manservant. Dropping Merlin’s hand, he turned swiftly and headed for the door.

“Fix your finger, then polish my sword. Don’t hurt yourself this time.” Merlin was about to question him again, but was interrupted, “Oh– and you can stay in here again, tonight. I need you to be ready to leave. No arguments.” 

The door to Arthur’s chambers slammed shut before Merlin could protest.


	6. Lower Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Servant and master share a sweet moment, but things go quickly downhill. Our young sorcerer faces off against a terrible force that has now begun targeting _people_.

“Are you asleep, Merlin?”

A low murmur from the other side of the bed met Merlin’s ears in the sleepy night-time silence, and he felt the inkling of a smile appear. He hadn’t managed to fall asleep yet, and apparently neither had his master; both of them tense with anticipation of what they’d encounter that night when they would disobey the King and roam the grounds past curfew. Merlin had conjured a miniature golden cockerel, enchanted to wake them at the most opportune moment, and it remained asleep on the nightstand next to the bed.

Rolling over onto his other side to face Arthur, he yawned. “Nope, can’t sleep.”

Arthur was already looking over at him; he could make out a messy explosion of sandy hair against the deep red pillows, and the subtle glimmer of heavy-lidded eyes in the sliver of moonlight cast from the window. Merlin felt like the sight should’ve taken his breath away, seeing the Prince so vulnerable and relaxed, bicep flexing beneath his tunic as he reached to flatten his hair after noticing his manservant’s beaming expression… but it felt comfortable. There was an invisible link between the two that both recognised but neither acknowledged aloud; Merlin was safe to be himself, mouthy, magical and rebellious, and Arthur was free to shed his princely responsibilities and diplomacy in favour of their personal brand of affectionate banter. 

Since Merlin’s nightmare mere days ago, he’d noticed Arthur had lowered his steely guard more, too. The Prince was almost openly protective of him now and Merlin kept catching him staring his way, observing, as if he were keeping his eyes peeled for the next sign of danger to swat away. When Arthur had consoled him upon waking that night, it had felt so desperate, so distraught, and he thought then that his master might’ve been just as frightened as he had been. He thought Arthur might never let him go, had there not been the looming weight of royal duty overhead, or the silent, slithering knowledge that being a sorcerer in Camelot, Merlin was worth less as any kind of romantic partner to a Prince than the dirt he trod on each day. Sighing a little, he reminded himself that lamenting the lonely life he was doomed to have would do nothing to prevent such an inevitability.

In the darkened chambers, Merlin couldn’t see Arthur frown, but melted into his touch anyway when rough fingers brushed over his temple and lingered on his cheekbone. The contact was innocent, harmless and sweet, and he drank up the silent affection in the minute gesture.

“Is something wrong? You seem…” The Prince’s voice was barely a whisper, and he trailed off into silence without finishing. Merlin imagined he could sense something was on his mind, even without magic– Arthur was quite perceptive when he made the effort. He allowed a small but sincere smile to creep across his face.

“No,” he lied, the tiny stab of pain in his heart prompting another sigh. He paused for several moments to consider his words. “This is nice, but… you know…” It was Merlin’s turn to trail off into silence, then, but Arthur already knew what he’d wanted to say. That their secret bond was unrealistic, impossible to be explored or fulfilled, and that knowing so was painful. More was expected of Arthur Pendragon, son of the King of Camelot, than to even _consider_ courting his manservant– even their relationship as it stood then, which seemed to the unobservant eye more like an unlikely friendship, would be rejected entirely by Uther and his royal court if they got a whiff of suspicion of their clandestine embraces in the dark of the forest, or there in Arthur’s bedchamber. 

Arthur knew all of this, too, and more besides. The spark which ignited in his gut when he laid eyes on Merlin was only fanned to flame when he remembered that it was forbidden. Their childish, flirtatious games had sated the desire for his touch at first, but when his common sense was diluted by mead, when he’d _kissed_ Merlin, he knew he’d let himself go too far. His knights wouldn’t invite him to the tavern again for a long time, he knew, and rightfully so. Of all this, the Prince was painfully aware, and yet he couldn’t quiet his heart, he couldn’t switch off the feelings he held so close to his chest, no matter how hard he might try– and the longer he tried, the stronger those feelings grew.

“I know,” the Prince repeated back to his manservant, his voice low and with a minute tremble that only Merlin could ever notice. He shuffled over an inch or two and leaned closer to the raven-haired man, admiring how his skin seemed to glow with dormant magic in the ghostly light of the moon. He lowered the hand which rested gently on Merlin’s cheek until it was cradling his jaw, fingers brushing _just barely_ over the skin of his neck, “But, just this once… can we…?”

Merlin’s heart skipped a beat, fluttering frantically behind his ribcage as the Prince drew closer and closer, eyes lingering on his own mouth. Magic simmered in the bottom of his stomach and seeped out, beginning to warm his body as it filled him. He wanted to wrap around him and fall into him, to smile wide as he could muster and shout that _yes, yes, yes_ , they could! He wanted to crush him in a perfect, passionate, long-awaited embrace and never let go. But it didn’t matter what he wanted.

“Sire–”

“ _Arthur_.”

“Arthur, I don’t think–”

“Then don’t think.”

And then it happened. Not messy like before, when Arthur was drunk, but much slower, sweeter, and more careful. Their lips brushed, and then the Prince stilled, remembering abruptly how awful it felt when he’d thought that Merlin hadn’t wanted this before; he retreated by a hair’s breadth and waited, eyes closed, breath held in anticipation. Barely a second passed before Merlin’s hands were on him, balled up in his tunic, wrenching him back, and their lips met again. 

Arthur’s were soft and warm and _perfect_ , and Merlin tossed all of his rumination aside as if it were never there in the first place. He needed this, he needed _Arthur_ , now, and _closer, closer, closer_. There was no more space between them and still he held on, tight enough so that the Prince couldn’t mistake his nervousness for reluctance. The magic in his veins seemed to pulse and glow in rhythm with their kiss, slow and attentive, every movement purposeful, designed to express the words that they couldn’t say out loud. They parted briefly, and Merlin lay back against the pillows on Arthur’s cue, allowing his grip on the Prince’s tunic to loosen as strong arms held the strapping blonde just above. Shaky breaths punctuated the silence of the chambers when their kiss was restored, Merlin snaking one hand up to the back of Arthur’s neck, the other pulling on his tunic again to close the unwanted space between them; the Prince pressed down against him and his magic flared brightly, threatening to burst free. He hummed a low moan against Arthur’s lips, and received the same from him in return, now aware of the other man’s growing erection pressing down by his hipbone.

When Merlin withdrew again, he was breathless, still clinging to the fabric of Arthur’s shirt, and brimming with a burning magic that he knew he wouldn’t be able to restrain for much longer. Taking a few seconds to catch his breath, he looked into the eyes of the Prince and his heart soared at the affection which resided there.

“Arthur,” his voice cracked ever so slightly and elicited a cheeky half-smile from the other man, “Do you… I don’t know whether… I don’t…” He stammered; the words wouldn’t come out. His face flushed with frustration in the dim light and Arthur chuckled, hot breath ghosting over his cheek.

“What?” Arthur teased.

“My magic… It won’t– I can’t hold it much longer. We need to stop.”

He’d hoped he was wrong in saying that; he hoped that they wouldn’t stop, because he didn’t know if he could handle such a perfect moment being ripped away from him so soon without losing his mind. Arthur wasted no time in reassuring him, rolling his eyes and giving a subtle shake of his head before lowering it to resume their embrace. He couldn’t help smiling against the Prince’s mouth then, his heart leaping in his chest when Arthur nipped playfully at his bottom lip and took advantage of his surprised gasp, deepening their kiss in an instant. Another moan escaped Merlin, this time louder, as the magic inside him grew hotter and hotter, prickling on his fingertips and swirling in his stomach, and Arthur wordlessly urged him to let go.

Pulling back, Merlin was breathing heavily, though his instruction was clear.

“Lie back.” 

Without answering, Arthur rolled onto his back, shooting him a smouldering stare that made Merlin’s stomach flip, and licking his lip when the slighter man shifted to reverse their position. Magic seemed to buzz in the air around them as Merlin straddled his hips and paused to calm his breathing for a moment. The darkened bedchambers had become significantly hotter now, and both men were sticky with sweat– not that either of them cared all that much. Merlin felt a newfound confidence in his position on top of the Prince and smirked at him playfully before leaning right down to whisper against the shell of his ear.

“Are you ready?”

The words prompted an anticipatory shiver from Arthur, and he nodded. 

At first, though it was a struggle, Merlin did his best to control the release of magic so as not to overwhelm the Prince. Sneaking one hand beneath his tunic, he relished the feeling of Arthur’s skin on his own and then pulsed a gentle burst of golden light across the expanse of his chest; the effect was immediate. A quivering sigh echoed through the room and hitched in Arthur’s throat when the liquid gold rippled over one, then both of his nipples. He remained still aside from the quick rise and fall of his chest, his mouth open and panting quietly with closed eyes until the sensation subsided. Merlin sat back and watched in awe.

Then the Prince was wriggling, sitting up and reaching for the hem of his tunic, which he promptly whipped over his head and tossed away. The daring expression on his face, coupled with the flushed pink hue of his cheeks made Merlin want to ravish him; he’d pour every ounce of magic he had into the waiting man beneath him if it meant he could have him like this forever. Instead, Merlin settled on continuing what they’d started and took Arthur’s eager disrobing to mean that he wanted more. That was exactly what he’d give him.

Leaning forward, Merlin ran one hand through Arthur’s damp locks and lowered his head to press a series of warm, wet, open-mouthed kisses onto the skin below his jaw, and down his neck. Meanwhile, the other hand explored the exposed skin of his master’s torso, feeling each twitch and shiver of anticipation until he was certain that Arthur’s quiet whimpering would turn to begging if he continued. Merlin released his magic again then, continuing to kiss and bite at the sensitive skin of Arthur’s neck as he writhed in bliss beneath him, rough hands snapping upwards to clutch tightly at his hips. The returned touch heightened Merlin’s own arousal then, the satisfying pinch of Arthur’s strong grip transforming into bright sparks beneath his skin as if the Prince alone was fuelling the fire of his magic. Returning his attention to Arthur’s mouth, Merlin grew harder with each passing second that magic circulated through them both, hot and slick and divine. A startled moan echoed through the royal chambers when the Prince ground upwards into Merlin, holding him steady by the hips; sparkles danced at the edge of the sorcerer’s vision, the perfect euphoria of each movement so intense that he couldn’t formulate the words to express it.

There, in that moment, he felt it again: the earth releasing a breath, all life falling still, the stars twinkling a little brighter in appreciation of their union. Merlin knew in his core that it was so _right_ , it was in his bones, in every fibre of his being, no matter what the royal court would think. There and then, he didn’t care that Arthur would never be truly his, because if they could remain apart and still share experiences like this, it would never matter anyway. For what could’ve been an eternity, they were lost in each other– Merlin rocking languidly atop his master, and his master in turn pressing them ever closer together, pulling Merlin back down each time he separated their lips for even a second. It was perfect, synchronous swaying, in time with the rhythm of the earth and seasons and the cycles of life. 

When the long-forgotten enchanted cockerel crowed, it startled them both and they broke their kiss with a _pop_. Snapping his head around, Merlin hissed a spell to silence the bird, which then evaporated, and he returned his gaze to the Prince. Still shimmering, the blanket of magic over his chest receded and left behind a rosy flush and a subtle glimmer. Arthur’s cheeks were pink, too, and his mouth red– Merlin liked that very much. He grinned down at the man beneath him, his hair all askew once again, and laughed breathily.

“Most everyone will be asleep now,” he murmured, shuffling back onto the bed to allow the Prince to sit up, “this is our best chance not to be caught.”

Arthur stared at him for a moment, his breath slowing, expression one of awe and appreciation that mirrored the feeling of warmth in Merlin’s chest. He smiled serenely, knowingly, at the Prince. They were both savouring this moment in the knowledge that it would likely not happen again; it _shouldn’t_ happen again, at least.

Then they were creeping down the corridor, away from Prince Arthur’s bedchamber, out of the castle and toward the lower town. His master had proposed that their search begin there because of the numerous reports from the area, suspecting that they might find a clue which would lead them to the conjurer of the dark entity lurking around. It was the early hours of the morning and they wouldn’t have much time to search before the night became brighter, the stars disappeared, and the common folk and farmers rose to begin working, so they made haste through the castle grounds and emerged soon after into the lower town. In one of the homes somewhere nearby, a baby was crying, and though Merlin knew that the child’s parents would be too preoccupied with quieting the babe to notice them, his shoulders tensed in reaction and he made a pointed effort to tread gently.

Winding through the dingy alleyways and deserted dirt tracks, a few drops of rain sprinkled down from above, causing the Prince to curse in a whisper. They’d have to be even stealthier and quicker if the rain continued to avoid being caught in the mud; explaining that mess to anyone in the castle would be impossible– a dead giveaway. Merlin’s eyes darted around him at all times, somewhere in between frantic and vigilant, but he saw nothing of note for quite some time as he followed the Prince, one step behind. The town was peaceful in its slumber, and though it definitely didn’t smell pleasant, there was a charm to the evident simplicity of life here that both men could appreciate. The common folk who lived in this part of Camelot lived to work and prided themselves on their crafts, be it farmers, seamstresses or smiths. Their whole lives revolved around one thing, and they wished for nothing more. Merlin couldn’t help feeling that though he had only lived in a town like this as a child, he could relate to these people. Men like Merlin were never supposed to amount to much.

Onward, they continued, Arthur’s hand ever resting on the hilt of his blade in case any threat should emerge, and after a short while Merlin’s stomach tightened. They’d almost scoured the entire town, bar any areas they’d heard regular human disturbance or activity, and the possibility of a completely fruitless search became more likely with each passing minute. That was until a familiar dread breezed past Merlin, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand, a cold sweat immediately breaking out on his furrowed brow. The darkness of the alleyway they were in only unnerved him further– there wasn’t enough visibility for him to scan the area due to the looming walls either side, and his dread escalated when a dull ache seeped into his muscles.

“ _Sire_ ,” he hissed under his breath, halting the Prince in front who turned to face him, grip tightening on his sword, “Something isn’t right here. I can feel it.”

Instinctively, Arthur snapped into a lowered stance and carefully drew his blade, the slick metal gliding almost silently from his belt. He nodded subtly toward a better-lit area at the other end of the alley and Merlin had to restrain himself from bolting away from it; whatever was lingering nearby had a deeply unsettling energy and it felt disgusted at their presence. Merlin glued his back to the wall behind him and sidled along toward the main street ahead, his heart beating slow but hard in his chest all the while. Shooting an uneasy but determined glance across to the Prince, he dashed across the mud forming underfoot to join him against the wall opposite before they reached the end of the alleyway. The drizzling rain had dampened his hair and it stuck to his forehead. An arm swiftly shot out then, clamping him back against the cold stone, and Arthur, pressing one finger to his lips in a hushing gesture, inched slowly forward to crane his neck around the wall. It was then that Merlin noticed the unnatural silence which had fallen on the lower town like a thick woollen blanket; it amplified every sound they made, every quick breath that left his lips, every desperate beat of his fearful heart. Something was very wrong.

Arthur suddenly snapped back into position against the wall and turned his head to face Merlin, who saw the colour drain from his cheeks and the terrified, wide-eyed expression the Prince bore, and gulped audibly. It was there in the street, he knew it. Still as stone, the two men battled with their horror to slow and quieten their breath, eyes locked onto one another. Merlin then remembered that his master had never seen the creature before– he’d only heard it described to him. This would likely be his first encounter with something so purely, powerfully evil. Without considering the consequences, he reached out a hand, trembling fingers taking a tentative grasp of the Prince’s bare wrist and pulsed a gentle trickle of calming magic into the skin; Arthur relaxed visibly and forced a weak smile of thanks. The change in the atmosphere around him was what alerted Merlin to his mistake, when the humming, aching fear in the pit of his stomach morphed into a panic so acute that he almost yelped. It had found them. It must have sensed his magic. _Obviously_ , he thought, scolding himself for being so stupid.

“ _Halt!_ ” the clear, authoritative voice startled both of them when it cracked through the heavy silence of the night, now making them aware of the patter of rain. Two heads whizzed around at once. Across the clearing stood the familiar frame of Sir Leon and another knight who they couldn’t quite see. Sir Leon was pointing his sword directly at them. He bellowed again, “Show yourselves!”

Hearts sank. Stomachs twisted. Arthur lurched forward instinctively to protect his fellow knights, but Merlin was quick too. He snagged his tunic, wrenching him back and slamming him against the wall with one hand clapped over his mouth before he could dash into the street and get himself killed. They both observed in abject horror when it emerged into their line of sight: a swirling black cloud of indistinguishable shape, expanding and contracting as it moved almost casually across to the knights. Sir Leon watched helplessly as it engulfed his comrade, releasing an anguished cry and dropping to his knees, sword falling into the now-sodden earth with a _splat_. The unidentified knight shrieked in frantic terror and his feet left the ground, his body being lifted by the creature. He begged for his life, over and over, and it echoed futilely through the empty streets. When the first bone snapped, the crunch was sickening, and the knight screamed louder still, writhing in palpable agony several feet above the ground as his limbs continued to twist and break in a relentless, nauseating display. Sir Leon soiled himself and passed out in the mud.

All the while, Merlin struggled with all his might and a slither of cautious magic to restrain his master, who thrashed about desperately against the wall. His muscles burned from the effort it took to hold him in place without using too much magic, unwilling to expose their presence and risk themselves too. He was wondering how long he could actually continue to hold the Prince when a set of unforgiving teeth sank into the palm of his hand, the pain sharp and clear– he tore it away from Arthur’s mouth with a wince and shot him an accusing glare which he immediately regretted. The Prince’s face was contorted in torment and fury, tears poured down his cheeks, mixing with the rain. The wailing knight released a final choked scream before falling silent, and Arthur roared.

**_“NO!”_ **

Startled, Merlin’s grip on the Prince faltered and he was shoved backwards across the alleyway with force enough to wind and dizzy him. Stumbling for his footing, his back slammed against the opposite wall and he clutched at nothing for support as he crumpled into a heap, watching Arthur raise his sword in a challenge that would have been awe-inspiring and brave, had his opponent been a mortal man.

“What are you?! Tell me who sent you!” his voice was hoarse and thick with distress, but Arthur’s stance remained challenging, his sword pointed outward and up at the cloud. Silence followed, punctuated only by the rain which had begun to fall even harder still, and Arthur’s heavy, haggard breaths.

With a _clank_ from his metal armour, the knight dropped from the air and face-down into the mud, still and lifeless. Then the cloud advanced on Arthur. It seemed to charge at him, furious by his demands; Merlin knew that he had to do something, _anything_ , and _now_ , if he were to save the Prince of Camelot from dying in agony like his fellow knight. He scrambled to his feet, dragging several painful gulps of air into his lungs, and drove every single scrap of fear out of his mind. His eyes focused on the creature. Arthur growled and swung with such force that he staggered forward, the blade having no effect on the noncorporeal entity. It rounded on him and he swung uselessly once more but lost his footing in the saturated mud underfoot. He slipped, sword flying out of his hand. Heart thundering against his ribcage, Merlin surged forward as the creature descended on the terrified Prince. He directed all of his anguish, fear, and dread into his core, and his magic blazed like an inferno, coursing through his veins with ruthless determination. He raised his hand.

**_“Lyft sy þe in bǽlwylm ac forhienan se wiðere!”_ **

Thunder cracked overhead, rumbling the sleeping Kingdom with a power so immense that he almost stumbled over again, and then a gale picked up from nowhere. It blustered and swirled until it was a raging torrent around them, whipping his drenched clothes against stinging skin, transforming the rain into airborne needles. The entity stormed, whirling around furiously in the clearing with no space to escape, and Merlin called one last word over the roaring wind surrounding them. 

**_“Ástríce!”_ **

With a piercing squeal, the black cloud dispersed and was rushed away in a current of violent wind. Merlin dropped to his knees and the Prince scrambled across the sludge to catch him, eyes wide in amazement and panting heavily. The rain slowed until it was only a drizzle again, and Arthur hauled him to a half-seated position against his chest. 

He felt weak, so weak, his limbs were heavy and useless, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Vaguely aware of a hand on his cheek, tapping firmly, slick from the mud and the rain, Merlin gazed dizzily up at the sky. The stars were fading, and, on the horizon, he saw the beginnings of dawn bleaching the black expanse to indigo. Someone was shaking him and saying his name, he knew, but he couldn’t quite hear it. _So tired._ He tried to speak but couldn’t control what came out, if anything did at all. His vision blurred and blackened, and the echoes of someone calling to him ebbed into his dreams as he succumbed to slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all who are reading! I hope you enjoy this chapter, the action finally starts to happen here!   
> I love the kudos so much and I appreciate any comments- they let me know that you're following the story and it warms my heart, so please do drop me a comment if you're enjoying it!   
> From this point we are going to start to see a lot more characters becoming meaningfully involved, so stay tuned.
> 
> Much love, and mind your pockets now,
> 
> darling_pickpocket  
> x


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